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Bequest 

Albert Adsit Clemons 
Aug. 24, 1938 

(Kot avaUatole lor 


Introduction 


- POPULAR Jiving writer of fiction on being asked to name 
his favourite novelist and that novelist’s greatest work, 
replied indirectly but eloquently with the statement that 
he was in the habit of re-reading Thackeray’s Esmond once 
every year. This testimony to the perennial freshness and 
excellence of the book would find many readers to endorse 
it, for there seems a fair concensus of opinion among capable 
critics that this delightful romance is not only the best which 
Thackeray has left us, but that it is one of the very finest 
books of its kind which the world possesses. In Thackeray’s 
pages the days of Queen Anne live for us as vividly as they 
do in those of the best of contemporary writers ; and this may 
be said with full consciousness of the galaxy of classic authors 
of the time — Addison, Pope, Steele, Swift, and their fellows. 
The novelist has, indeed, as one writer puts it, become a 
classic himself with this story. 

Writing to his mother towards the close of 1850, on the 
day on which he had completed Pendennis, Thackeray said, 
“ I’ve got a better subject for a novel than any I’ve yet had.” 
On June 2nd, 1852, we learn from Edward FitzGerald’s corre- 
spondence that “ Thackeray finished his novel last Saturday.” 
During the intervening eighteen months the novelist had 
worked hard, but to such good purpose that he had produced 
a masterpiece. Masterpieces are not always recognisable at a 
first glance, and two such diverse writers as George Eliot and 
Mary Russell Mitford found the work “ uncomfortable ” and 
painful.” There were not wanting, however, more discern- 
ing critics, for Charlotte Bronte, after reading (in February 
1852) the first volume, had written, ‘Mf the continuation be 
an improvement upon the commencement, if the steam gathers 
force as it rolls, Thackeray will triumph.” The second portion 
the same outspoken critic found contained ‘‘ too much History 
— too little Story,” while in the third there was “ the most 


IV 


Introduction 


sparkle, impetus, and interest.” Charlotte Bronte was right, for 
assuredly by the completion of Esmond did the author triumph, 
while the half century that has elapsed since the work was 
first issued has only served to strengthen its hold upon the 
great world of readers. That same half century, it may be 
affirmed with very little fear of contradiction, has seen the 
publication of nothing finer in the whole range of fictional 
literature, nothing that is at once so admirable as a work 
of art and so true as a study of human nature. 

William Makepeace Thackeray has now been dead for five- 
and-thirty years, but his story is as fresh and as absorbingly 
attractive as ever — and that even though read and re-read 
many times. Esmond is, indeed, one of those books in giving 
voice to one’s enthusiasm about which we may run the risk of 
becoming incoherent; ‘‘of this book,” as Mr F. T. Marzials 
says, “it is difficult to speak in language that shall not seem 
to savour of exaggeration and hyperbole.” All discerning 
readers have recognised in it a masterly presentation of 
eighteenth-century life and manners, a presentation so subtly 
thorough that the illusion as to its being written by a man 
who had lived through its scenes is complete ; and this 
despite certain anachronisms discoverable by the patient 
student.* In preparing his series of lectures on The English 
Humourists of the Eighteenth Century the author had so saturated 
his mind with the thought and mode of expression of the j 
time that he came well prepared to the writing of his new 
novel ; and that preparation if not responsible for the bent 
of the romance is, we may feel safely assured, responsible 
for the period in which it was placed. Indeed, in the 
lecture on Steele — the most successful, perhaps, of all the 
historical individuals that appear in the story — Thackeray 
had a passage which if it may not be looked upon as the} 
shadow of an event which was to come in the shape of 
his book may at least be applied to The History of Henry 
Esmond : “ Out of the fictitious book I get the expression of 
the life of the time ; of the manners, of the movements, the 
dress, the pleasures, the laughter, the ridicules of society 

* As, for example, when Thackeray makes Beatrix and Esmond quote from 
Peter Wilkins in 1712, whereas the story was not published until 1751. 


Introduction 


V 


the old times live again, and I travel in the old country of 
England. Can the heaviest historian do more for me ? ” 

Since this story was first published it has appeared in many 
successive editions, and in various forms, now as part of the 
“ Works ” and now by itself, here with the aid of illustrations 
and there in typographical simplicity. English readers abroad 
can get it in the familiar paper-covered volumes of the 
Tauchnitz Library ; while French, Hungarian, Swedish, and 
other translations of it have appeared. That there are no 
signs of diminution in its popularity — that indeed it is becom- 
ing even more widely appreciated, may best be indicated by 
the statement that at least three new editions of the story 
have been published in London this year. Fortunate, indeed, 
are those readers who have yet to make the acquaintance of 
Rachel, Lady Castlewood, of her daughter Beatrix, and her 
son the young lord, of their kinsman, champion, and lover, 
Henry Esmond, of loveable Dick Steele, of the Jesuit spy. 
Father Holt (who by the way had a historical prototype of 
the same name during the latter part of the 1 6th century), and 
the other good, bad and indifferent — but all intensely human — 
characters of this perfect story ; especially fortunate are such 
readers who first meet these people in pages t^^at include Mr 
Bedford’s fine representations of scenes in the story. 

WALTER JERROLD. 


TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 


WILLIAM BINGHAM, LORD ASHBURTON 

My dear Lord, 

The writer oj a hook which copies the manners and 
language of Queen Anne's time^ must not omit the Dedication 
to the Patron ; and I ask leave to inscribe this V olume to 
your Lordshipy for the sake of the great kindness and friend- 
ship which I owe to you and yours. 

My volume will reach you when the Author is on his voyage 
to a country where your name is as well known as here. 
Wherever I am, I shall gratefully regard you ; and shall 
not be the less welcomed in America because I am 

Tour obliged friend and servant^ 

W. M. THACKERAY. 


London, October i8, 1852. 


Preface 


The Esmonds of Virginia 

The estate of Castlewood, in Virginia, which was given to our 
ancestors by King Charles the First, as some return for the 
sacrifices made in His Majesty’s cause by the Esmond family, 
lies in Westmoreland county, between the rivers Potomac and 
Rappahannoc, and was once as great as an English Principality, 
though in the early times its revenues were but small. In- 
deed, for near eighty years after our forefathers possessed 
them, our plantations were in the hands of factors, who en- 
riched themselves one after another, though a few scores of 
hogsheads of tobacco were all the produce that, for long after 
the Restoration, our family received from their Virginian 
estates. 

My dear and honoured father. Colonel Henry Esmond, 
whose history, written by himself, is contained in the accom- 
panying volume, came to Virginia in the year 1718, built his 
house of Castlewood, and here permanently settled. After a 
long stormy life in England, he passed the remainder of his 
many years in peace and honour in this country ; how beloved 
and respected by all his fellow-citizens, how inexpressibly dear 
to his family, I need not say. His whole life was a benefit to 
all who were connected with him. He gave the best example, 
the best advice, the most bounteous hospitality to his friends ; 
the tenderest care to his dependants ; and bestowed on those 
of his immediate family such a blessing of fatherly love and 
protection as can never be thought of, by us, at least, without 
veneration and thankfulness ; and my son’s children, whether 
established here in our Republic, or at home in the always 
beloved mother country, from which our late quarrel hath 
separated us, may surely be proud to be descended from one 
who in all ways was so truly noble. 

My dear mother died in 1736, soon after our return from 


Vlll 


Preface 


England, whither my parents took me for my education ; and 
where I made the acquaintance of Mr Warrington, whom my 
children never saw. When it pleased Heaven, in the bloom of 
his youth, and after but a few months of a most happy union, to 
remove him from me, I owed my recovery from the grief 
which that calamity caused me, mainly to my dearest father’s 
tenderness, and then to the blessing vouchsafed to me in the 
birth of my two beloved boys. I know the fatal differences 
which separated them in politics never disunited their hearts ; 
and as I can love them both, whether wearing the King’s 
colours or the Republic’s, I am sure that they love me and 
one another, and him above all, my father and theirs, the 
dearest friend of their childhood, the noble gentleman who 
bred them from their infancy in the practice and knowledge of 
Truth, and Love, and Honour. 

My children will never forget the appearance and figure of 
their revered grandfather j and I wish I possessed the art of 
drawing (which my papa had in perfection), so that I could 
leave to our descendants a portrait of one who was so good 
and so respected. My father was of a dark complexion, with 
a very great forehead and dark hazel eyes, overhung by eye- 
brows which remained black long after his hair was white. 
His nose was aquiline, his smile extraordinary sweet. How 
well I remember it, and how little any description I can write 
can recall his image ! He was of rather low stature, not being 
above five feet seven inches in height ; he used to laugh at my 
sons, whom he called his crutches, and say they were grown 
too tall for him to lean upon. But small as he was, he had a 
perfect grace and majesty of deportment, such as I have never 
seen in this country, except perhaps in our friend Mr Washing- 
ton, and commanded respect wherever he appeared. 

In all bodily exercises he excelled, and showed an extra- 
ordinary quickness and agility. Of fencing he was especially 
fond, and made my two boys proficient in that art ; so much 
so that when the French came to this country with Monsieur 
Rochambeau, not one of his officers was superior to my 
Henry, and he was not the equal of my poor George, who had 
taken the King’s side in our lamentable but glorious War of 
Independence. 


Preface 


IX 


Neither my father nor my mother ever wore powder in their 
hair ; both their heads were as white as silver, as I can re- 
member them. My dear mother possessed to the last an extra- 
ordinary brightness and freshness of complexion ; nor would 
people believe that she did not wear rouge. At sixty years of 
age, she still looked young, and was quite agile. It was not 
until after that dreadful siege of our house by the Indians, 
which left me a widow ere I was a mother, that my dear 
mother’s health broke. She never recovered her terror and 
anxiety of those days, which ended so fatally for me, then a 
bride scarce six months married, and died in my father’s arms 
ere my own year of widowhood was over. 

From that day, until the last of his dear and honoured life, 
it was my delight and consolation to remain with him as his 
comforter and companion ; and from those little notes which 
my mother hath made here and there in the volume in which 
my father describes his adventures in Europe, I can well under- 
stand the extreme devotion with which she regarded him — a 
devotion so passionate and exclusive as to prevent her, I think, 
from loving any other person except with an inferior regard ; 
her whole thoughts being centred on this one object of affec- 
tion and worship. I know that, before her, my dear father 
did not show the love which he had for his daughter ; and in 
her last and most sacred moments, this dear and tender parent 
owned to me her repentance that she had not loved me enough ; 
her jealousy even that my father should give his affection to 
any but herself ; and in the most fond and beautiful words of 
affection and admonition, she bade me never to leave him, and to 
supply the place which she was quitting. With a clear con- 
science, and a heart inexpressibly thankful, I think I can say 
that I fulfilled those dying commands, and that until his last 
hour my dearest father never had to complain that his daugh- 
ter’s love and fidelity failed him. 

And it is since I knew him entirely — for during my mother’s 
life he never quite opened himself to me — since I knew the 
value and splendour of that affection which he bestowed upon 
me, that I have come to understand and pardon what, I own, 
used to anger me in my mother’s lifetime, her jealousy re- 
specting her husband’s love. ’Twas a gift so precious, that 


X 


Preface 


no wonder she who had it was for keeping it all, and could 
part with none of it, even to her daughter. 

Though I never heard my father use a rough word, ’twas 
extraordinary with how much awe his people regarded him ; 
and the servants on our plantation, both those assigned from 
England and the purchased negroes, obeyed him with an 
eagerness such as the most severe taskmasters round about us 
could never get from their people. He was never familiar, 
though perfectly simple and natural ; he was the same with 
the meanest man as with the greatest, and as courteous to a 
black slave-girl as to the Governor’s wife. No one ever 
thought of taking a liberty with him (except once a tipsy 
gentleman from York, and I am bound to own that my papa 
never forgave him) : he set the humblest people at once on 
their ease with him, and brought down the most arrogant by 
a grave satiric way, which made persons exceedingly afraid of 
him. His courtesy was not put on like a Sunday suit, and 
laid by when the company went away ; it was always the 
same ; as he was always dressed the same, whether for a 
dinner by ourselves or for a great entertainment. They say 
he liked to be the first in his company ; but what company 
was there in which he would not be first ? When I went to 
Europe for my education, and we passed a winter at London 
with my half-brother, my Lord Castlewood, and his second 
lady, I saw at Her Majesty’s Court some of the most famous 
gentlemen of those days ; and I thought to myself none of 
these are better than my papa ; and the famous Lord Boling- 
broke, who came to us from Dawley, said as much, and that 
the men of that time were not like those of his youth : — 
‘‘Were your father. Madam,” he said, “ to go into the woods, 
the Indians would elect him Sachem ; ” and his Lordship was 
pleased to call me Pocahontas. 

I did not see our other relative. Bishop Tusher’s lady, of 
whom so much is said in my papa’s Memoirs — although my 
mamma went to visit her in the country. I have no pride (as 
I showed by complying with my mother’s request, and marry- 
ing a gentleman who was but the younger son of a Suffolk 
Baronet), yet I own to a decent respect for my name, and wonder 
how one who ever bore it should change it for that of Mrs 


Preface 


XI 


Thomas Tusher, I pass over as odious and unworthy of credit 
those reports (which I heard in Europe, and was then too young 
to understand), how this person, having left her family and fled 
to Paris, out of jealousy of the Pretender, betrayed his secrets 
to my Lord Stair, King George’s Ambassador, and nearly 
caused the Prince’s death there ; how she came to England 
and married this Mr Tusher, and became a great favourite of 
King George the Second, by whom Mr Tusher was made a 
Dean, and then a Bishop. I did not see the lady, who chose to 
remain at her palace all the time we were in London ; but after 
visiting her, my poor mamma said she had lost all her good 
looks, and warned me not to set too much store by any such 
gifts which nature had bestowed upon me. She grew ex- 
ceedingly stout ; and I remember my brother’s wife. Lady 
Castlewood, saying : “ No wonder she became a favourite, for 
the King likes them old and ugly, as his father did before 
him.” On which papa said : ‘‘ All women were alike ; that 
there was never one so beautiful as that one; and that we 
could forgive her everything but her beauty.” And hereupon 
my mamma looked vexed, and my Lord Castlewood began to 
laugh ; and I, of course, being a young creature, could not 
understand what was the subject of their conversation. 

After the circumstances narrated in the third book of these 
Memoirs, my father and mother both went abroad, being 
advised by their friends to leave the country in consequence of 
the transactions which are recounted at the close of the volume 
of the Memoirs. But my brother, hearing how the future 
Bishop's lady had quitted Castlewood and joined the Pretender 
at Paris, pursued him, and would have killed him. Prince as 
he was, had not the Prince managed to make his escape. On 
his expedition to Scotland directly after, Castlewood was so 
enraged against him that he asked leave to serve as a volunteer, 
and join the Duke of Argyle’s army in Scotland, which the 
Pretender never had the courage to face ; and thenceforth my 
Lord was quite reconciled to the present reigning family, from 
whom he hath even received promotion. 

Mrs Tusher was by this time as angry against the Pretender 
as any of her relations could be, and used to boast, as I have 
heard, that she not only brought back my Lord to the Church 


Xll 


Preface 


of England, but procured the English peerage for him, which 
the junior branch of our family at present enjoys. She was a 
great friend of Sir Robert Walpole, and would not rest until 
her husband slept at Lambeth, my papa used laughing to say. 
However, the Bishop died of apoplexy suddenly, and his wife 
erected a great monument over him ; and the pair sleep under 
that stone, with a canopy of marble clouds and angels above 
them — the first Mrs Tusher lying sixty miles off at Castle- 
wood. 

But my papa’s genius and education are both greater than 
any a woman can be expected to have, and his adventures in 
Europe far more exciting than his life in this country, which 
was passed in the tranquil offices of love and duty ; and I shall 
say no more by way of introduction to his Memoirs, nor keep 
my children from the perusal of a story which is much more 
interesting than that of their affectionate old mother, 

RACHEL ESMOND WARRINGTON. 


Castlewood, Virginia, 
November 3 , 1778 . 


Contents 


Book I 


The early youth of Henry 


Esmond^ up to the time of his leaving Trinity 
College, in Cambridge 


CHAP. 

I. AN ACCOUNT OF THE FAMILY OF ESMOND OF CASTLEWOOD HALL 

II. RELATES HOW FRANCIS, FOURTH VISCOUNT, ARRIVES AT CASTLE- 
^VOOD 

III. WHITHER, IN THE TIME OF THOMAS, THIRD VISCOUNT, I HAD 

PRECEDED HIM AS PAGE TO ISABELLA 

IV. I AM PLACED UNDER A POPISH PRIEST AND BRED TO THAT 

RELIGION VISCOUNTESS CASTLEWOOD . . . . 

V. MY SUPERIORS ARE ENGAGED IN PLOTS FOR THE RESTORATION 

OF KING JAMES THE SECOND . . . . . 

VI. THE ISSUE OF THE PLOTS THE DEATH OF THOMAS, THIRD 

VISCOUNT OF CASTLEWOOD ; AND THE IMPRISONMENT OF 
HIS VISCOUNTESS ....... 

VII. I AM LEFT AT CASTLEWOOD AN ORPHAN, AND FIND MOST KIND 
PROTECTORS THERE ...... 

VIII. AFTER GOOD FORTUNE COMES EVIL . . . . . 

IX. I HAVE THE SMALL-POX, AND PREPARE TO LEAVE CASTLEWOOD 

X. I GO TO CAMBRIDGE, AND DO BUT LITTLE GOOD THERE 

XI. I COME HOME FOR A HOLIDAY TO CASTLEWOOD, AND FIND A 

SKELETON IN THE HOUSE . . . . . 

XII. MY LORD MOHUN COMES AMONG US FOR NO GOOD 

XIII. MY LORD LEAVES US AND HIS EVIL BEHIND HIM 

XIV. WE RIDE AFTER HIM TO LONDON . . . . . 


PAGE 

4 

9 

17 

28 

35 


46 

61 

70 

79 

99 

106 
1 19 
1 29 

143 


Book II 


Contains Mr Esmond^ s military life, and other matters appertaining 

to the Esmond family 

I. I AM IN PRISON, AND VISITED, BUT NOT CONSOLED THERE . 1 60 

II. I COME TO THE END OF MY CAPTIVITY, BUT NOT OF MY 


TROUBLE 


170 


XIV 


Contents 


CHAP. 

III. I TAKE THE QUEEn’s PAY IN QUINTS REGIMENT . 

IV. RECAPITULATIONS ........ 

V. I GO ON THE VIGO BAY EXPEDITION, TASTE SALTWATER, AND 

SMELL POWDER ....... 

VI. THE 29TH DECEMBER ....... 

VII. I AM MADE WELCOME AT WALCOTE . . . . . 

VIII. FAMILY TALK ........ 

IX. I MAKE THE CAMPAIGN OF 1 7O4 . . . . . 

X. AN OLD STORY ABOUT A FOOL AND A WOMAN 

XI. THE FAMOUS MR JOSEPH ADDISON . . . . . 

XII. I GET A COMPANY IN THE CAMPAIGN OF I706 . 

XIII. I MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE IN FLANDERS, AND FIND MY 

mother’s grave and my own cradle there . 

XIV. THE CAMPAIGN OF I7O7, I 708 . . . . . 

XV. GENERAL WEBB WINS THE BATTLE OF WYNENDAEL 


PAGE 

179 

189 

•195 

206 

213 

224 

23* 

240 

250 

262 

267 

280 

288 


Book III 


Containing the end of Mr Esmond's adventures in England 


I. I COME TO AN END OF MY BATTLES AND BRUISES 

II. I GO HOME, AND HARP ON THE OLD STRING 

III. A PAPER OUT OF THE “SPECTATOR” . . . . 

IV. Beatrix’s new suitor ....... 

V. MOHUN APPEARS FOR THE LAST TIME IN THIS HISTORY 

VI. POOR BEATRIX ........ 

VII. 1 VISIT CASTLEWOOD ONCE MORE . . . . . 

VIII. I TRAVEL TO FRANCE, AND BRING HOME A PORTRAIT OF 

RIGAUD ........ 

IX. THE ORIGINAL OF THE PORTRAIT COMES TO ENGLAND . 

X. WE ENTERTAIN A VERY DISTINGUISHED GUEST AT KENSINGTON 

XI. OUR GUEST QUITS US AS NOT BEING HOSPITABLE ENOUGH . 

XII. A GREAT SCHEME, AND WHO BALKED IT . 

XIII. AUGUST 1 ST, 1714 


316 

330 

345 

365 

376 

390 

396 

407 

4^7 
43 ‘ 

446 

456 

462 


List of Illustrations 


FAGH 

DEA CERTE ........ Frontispiece 

ASSAILED BY THE MOB . . . . . . . .32 

“ D N ! ’’ CRIED MY LORD CASTLEWOOD, OUT OF ALL PATIENCE. 

“ask lord MOHUN what I SAID TO HIM, FRANCIS ’’ . . I 32 


BENEDICTI BENEDICENTES . . . . . . . 1 59 


AND AS SHE SPOKE SHE LOOKED AT HIM WITH A GLANCE SO FOND 

AND SO SAD . . . . . . . .163 

AND IN THE STALLS, STILL IN HER BLACK WIDOw’s HOOD, SAT 

Esmond’s dear mistress, her son by her side . . 206 


so she came holding her dress with 

ONE 

FAIR 

ROUNDED 

ARM 

I AM WOUNDED .... 

• 

1 

• 

• 

• 

ESMOND AND ADDISON . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

THE DIAMOND NECKLACE 

• 

• 

• 

• 

DR BOBADIL .... 

• 

• 

• 

• 

THEY WALKED OUT, HAND-IN-HAND, . . . 

TO 

THE 

TERRACE 

WALK 


215 

238 

253 

372 

384 

402 






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.PJ 







The History of Henry Esmond 


Book I 

The Early Youth of Henry Esmond, up to the Time of his Leaving 
Trinity College, in Cambridge 

The actors in the old tragedies, as we read, piped their iambics 
to a tune, speaking from under a mask, and wearing stilts and a 
great head-dress. ’Twas thought the dignity of the Tragic 
Muse required these appurtenances, and that she was not to 
move except to a measure and cadence. So Queen Medea 
slew her children to a slow music : and King Agamemnon 
perished in a dying fall (to use Mr Dryden’s words) : the 
Chorus standing by in a set attitude, and rhythmically and 
decorously bewailing the fates of those great crown persons. 
The Muse of History hath encumbered herself with ceremony 
as well as her Sister of the Theatre. She too wears the mask 
and the cothurnus, and speaks to measure. She too, in our 
age, busies herself with the affairs only of kings ; waiting on 
them obsequiously and stately, as if she were but a mistress of 
court ceremonies, and had nothing to do with the registering 
of the affairs of the common people. I have seen in his very 
old age and decrepitude the old French King Lewis the Four- 
teenth, the type and model of kinghood — who never moved 
but to measure, who lived and died according to the laws of 
his court-marshal, persisting in enacting through life the part 
of Hero; and, divested of poetry, this was but a little wrinkled 
old man, pock-marked, and with a great periwig and red heels 
to make him look tall — a hero for a book if you like, or for a 
brass statue or a painted ceiling, a god in a Roman shape, but 
what more than a man for Madame Maintenon, or the barber 


A 


2 


The History of 

who shaved him, or Monsieur Fagon, his surgeon ? I wonder 
shall History ever pull ofF her periwig and cease to be court- 
ridden ? Shall we see something of France and England 
besides Versailles and Windsor ? I saw Queen Anne at the 
latter place tearing down the Park slopes, after her stag- 
hounds, and driving her one-horse chaise, a hot, red-faced 
woman, not in the least resembling that statue of her which 
turns its stone back upon St Paul’s, and faces the coaches 
struggling up Ludgate Hill. She was neither better bred nor 
wiser than you and me, though we knelt to hand her a letter 
or a wash-hand basin. Why shall History go on kneeling to 
the end of time ? I am for having her rise up off her knees, 
and take a natural posture : not to be for ever performing 
cringes and congees like a court chamberlain, and shuffling 
backwards out of doors in the presence of the sovereign. In a 
word, I would have history familiar rather than heroic : and 
think that Mr Hogarth and Mr Fielding will give our children 
a much better idea of the manners of the present age in 
England, than the Court Gazette and the newspapers which we 
get thence. 

There was a German officer of Webb’s with whom we 
used to joke, and of whom a story (whereof I myself was 
the author) was got to be believed in the army, that he was 
eldest son of the hereditary Grand Bootjack of the Empire, 
and the heir to that honour of which his ancestors had been 
very proud, having been kicked for twenty generations by one 
imperial foot, as they drew the boot from the other. I have 
heard that the old Lord Castlewood, of part of whose family 
these present volumes are a chronicle, though he came of 
quite as good blood as the Stuarts whom he served (and who 
as regards mere lineage are no better than a dozen English 
and Scottish houses I could name), was prouder of his post 
about the court than of his ancestral honours, and valued 
his dignity (as Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the 
King’s Posset) so highly, that he cheerfully ruined himself 
for the thankless and thriftless race who bestowed it. He 
pawned his plate for King Charles the First, mortgaged his 
property for the same cause, and lost the greater part of it by 
fines and sequestration : stood a siege of his castle by Ireton, 


3 


Henry Esmond 

where his brother Thomas capitulated (afterward making 
terms with the Commonwealth, for which the elder brother 
never forgave him), and where his second brother Edward, 
who had embraced the ecclesiastical profession, was slain on 
Castlewood Tower, being engaged there both as preacher and 
artilleryman. This resolute old loyalist, who was with the 
King whilst his house was thus being battered down, escaped 
abroad with his only son, then a boy, to return and take a 
part in Worcester fight. On that fatal field Eustace Esmond 
was killed, and Castlewood fled from it once more into exile, 
and henceforward, and after the Restoration, never was away 
from the Court of the monarch (for whose return we offer 
thanks in the Prayer-Book) who sold his country and who 
took bribes of the French king. 

What spectacle is more august than that of a great king in 
exile ? Who is more worthy of respect than a brave man in 
misfortune ? Mr Addison has painted such a figure in his noble 
piece of “ Cato.” But suppose fugitive Cato fuddJing himself 
at a tavern with a wench on each knee, a dozen faithful and 
tipsy companions of defeat, and a landlord calling out for his 
bill •, and the dignity of misfortune is straightway lost. The 
Historical Muse turns away shamefaced from the Vulgar scene, 
and closes the door — on which the exile’s unpaid drink is 
scored up — upon him and his pots and his pipes, and the 
tavern-chorus which he and his friends are singing. Such a 
man as Charles should have had an Ostade or Mieris to paint him. 
Your Knellers and Le Bruns only deal in clumsy and impossible 
allegories ; and it hath always seemed to me blasphemy to claim 
Olympus for such a wine-drabbled divinity as that. 

About the King’s follower, the Viscount Castlewood, 
orphaned of his son, ruined by his fidelity, bearing many 
wounds and marks of bravery, old and in exile — his kinsmen 
I suppose should be silent ; nor if this patriarch fell down in 
his cups, call fie upon him, and fetch passers-by to laugh at 
his red face and white hairs,, \yhat ^ does a stream rush out 
of a mountain free and pure, to roll through fair pastures, to 
feed and throw out bright tributaries, and to end in a village 
gutter ?, Lives that have noble commencements have often no 
better endings ; it is not without a kind of awe and reverence 


4 


The History of 

that an observer should speculate upon such careers as he 
traces the course of them. I have seen too much of success 
in life to take off my hat and huzzah to it as it passes in its 
gilt coach ; and would do my little part with my neighbours 
on foot, that they should not gape with too much wonder, nor 
applaud too loudly. Is it the Lord Mayor going in state to 
mince-pies and the Mansion House ? Is it poor Jack of New- 
gate’s procession, with the sheriff and javelin-men, conducting 
him on his last journey to Tyburn ? I look into my heart and 
think that I am as good as my Lord Mayor, and know I am as 
bad as Tyburn Jack. Give me a chain and red gown and a 
pudding before me, and I could play the part of Alderman 
very well, and sentence Jack after dinner.^ Starve me, keep 
me from books and honest people, educate me to love dice, 
gin, and pleasure, and put me on Hounslow Heath, with a 
purse before me, and I will take it. “And I shall be de- 
servedly hanged,” say you, wishing to put an end to this 
prosing. I don’t say No. I can’t but accept the world as I 
find it, including a rope’s end, as long as it is in fashion. 


Chapter I 

An Account of the Family of Esmond of Castlewood Hall 

When Francis, fourth Viscount Castlewood, came to his title, 
and presently after to take possession of his house of Castle- 
wood, county Hants, in the year 1691, almost the only tenant 
of the place besides the domestics was a lad of twelve years of 
age, of whom no one seemed to take any note until my Lady 
Viscountess lighted upon him going over the house with the 
housekeeper on the day of her arrival. The boy was in the 
room known as the Book-room, or Yellow Gallery, where the 
portraits of the family used to hang, that fine piece among | 
others of Sir Antonio Van Dyck of George, second Viscount, 1 
and that by Mr Dobson of my Lord the third Viscount, just ' 
deceased, which it seems his lady and widow did not think fit I 
to carry away, when she sent for and carried ofF to her house I 
at Chelsey, near to London, the picture of herself by Sir Peter 


Henry Esmond 5 

Lely, in which her Ladyship was represented as a huntress ot 
Diana’s court. 

The new and fair lady of Castlewood found the sad, lonely 
little occupant of this gallery busy over his great book, which 
he laid down when he was aware that a stranger was at hand. 
And, knowing who that person must be, the lad stood up and 
bowed before her, performing a shy obeisance to the mistress 
of his house. 

She stretched out her hand — indeed when was it that that 
hand would not stretch out to do an act of kindness, or to pro- 
tect grief and ill-fortune ? ‘‘ And this is our kinsman,” she 

said ; “ and what is your name, kinsman ?” 

“My name is Henry Esmond,” said the lad, looking up at 
her in a sort of delight and wonder, for she had come upon 
him as a Dea certe, and appeared the most charming object he 
had ever looked on. Her golden hair was shining in the gold 
of the sun; her complexion was of a dazzling bloom; her 
lips smiling, and her eyes beaming with a kindness which 
made Harry Esmond’s heart to beat with surprise. 

“ His name is Henry Esmond, sure enough, my Lady,” says 
Mrs Worksop, the housekeeper (an old tyrant whom Henry 
Esmond plagued more than he hated), and the old gentle- 
woman looked significantly towards the late lord’s picture as 
it now is in the family, noble and severe-looking, with his hand 
on his sword, and his order on his cloak, which he had from 
the Emperor during the war on the Danube against the Turk. 

Seeing the great and undeniable likeness between this por- 
trait and the lad, the new Viscountess, who had still hold of 
the boy’s hand as she looked at the picture, blushed and 
dropped the hand quickly, and walked down the gallery, 
followed by Mrs Worksop. 

When the lady came back, Harry Esmond stood exactly in 
i the same spot, and with his hand as it had fallen when he 
j dropped it on his black coat. 

I Her heart melted, I suppose (indeed, she hath since owned 
I as much), at the notion that she should do anything unkind to 
I any mortal, great or small; for, when she returned, she had 
i sent away the housekeeper upon an errand by the door at the 
farther end of the gallery; and, coming back to the lad, with 


6 


The History of 

a look of infinite pity and tenderness in her eyes, she took his 
hand again, placing her other fair hand on his head, and 
saying some words to him, which were so kind, and said 
in a voice so sweet, that the boy, who had never looked upon 
so much beauty before, felt as if the touch of a superior being 
or angel smote him down to the ground, and kissed the fair 
protecting hand as he knelt on one knee. To the very last 
hour of his life, Esmond remembered the lady as she then 
spoke and looked, the rings on her fair hands, the very scent 
of her robe, the beam of her eyes lighting up with surprise 
and kindness, her lips blooming in a smile, the sun making a 
golden halo round her hair. 

As the boy was yet in this attitude of humility, enters 
behind him a portly gentleman, with a little girl of four years 
old in his hand. The gentleman burst into a great laugh 
at the lady and her adorer, with his little queer figure, his 
sallow face, and long black hair. The lady blushed, and seemed 
to deprecate his ridicule by a look of appeal to her husband ; for 
it was my Lord Viscount who now arrived, and whom the lad 
knew, having once before seen him in the late lord’s lifetime. 

“ So this is the little priest ! ” says my Lord, looking down 
at the lad. “ Welcome, kinsman ! ” 

“ He is saying his prayers to mamma,” says the little girl, 
who came up to her papa’s knees : and my Lord burst out into 
another great laugh at this, and kinsman Henry looked very 
silly. He invented a half-dozen of speeches in reply, but 
’twas months afterwards when he thought of this adven- 
ture : as it was, he had never a word in answer. 

“ Le pauvre enfant, il n’a que nous,” says the lady, looking 
to her lord ; and the boy, who understood her, though doubt- 
less she thought otherwise, thanked her with all his heart for 
her kind speech. 

“ And he shan’t want for friends here,” says my Lord, in a 
kind voice, “shall he, little Trix?” 

The little girl, whose name was Beatrix, and whom her 
papa called by this diminutive, looked at Henry Esmond 
solemnly, with a pair of large eyes, and then a smile shone 
over her face, which was as beautiful as that of a cherub, and 
she came up and put out a little hand to him. A keen and 


7 


Henry Esmond 

delightful pang of gratitude, happiness, affection, filled the 
orphan child’s heart as he received from the protectors, whom 
Heaven had sent to him, these touching words and tokens of 
friendliness and kindness. But an hour since he had felt 
quite alone in the world ; when he heard the great peal of 
bells from Castlewood church ringing that morning to wel- 
come the arrival of the new lord and lady, it had rung only 
terror and anxiety to him, for he knew not how the new 
owner would deal with him ; and those to whom he formerly 
looked for protection were forgotten or dead. Pride and 
doubt too had kept him within doors, when the Vicar and the 
people of the village, and the servants of the house, had gone 
out to welcome my Lord Castlewood — for Henry Esmond was 
no servant, though a dependant ; no relative, though he bore 
the name and inherited the blood of the house, and in the 
midst of the noise and acclamations attending the arrival of 
the new lord (for whom, you may be sure, a feast was got 
ready, and guns were fired, and tenants and domestics 
huzzahed when his carriage approached and rolled into the 
courtyard of the Hall), no one ever took any notice of young 
Henry Esmond, who sate unobserved and alone in the Book- 
room, until the afternoon of that day, when his new friends 
found him. 

When my Lord and Lady were going away thence, the little 
girl, still holding her kinsman by the hand, bade him to come 
too. “ Thou wilt always forsake an old friend for a new one, 
Trix,” says her father to her good-naturedly ; and went into 
the gallery, giving an arm to his lady. They passed thence 
through the music gallery, long since dismantled, and Queen 
Elizabeth’s Rooms in the clock-tower, and out into the terrace, 
where was a fine prospect of sunset and the great darkling 
woods with a cloud of rooks returning : and the plain and 
river with Castlewood village beyond, and purple hills beauti- 
ful to look at — and the little heir of Castlewood, a child of two 
years old, was already here on the terrace in his nurse’s arms, 
from whom he ran across the grass instantly he perceived his 
mother, and came to her. 

“ If thou canst not be happy here,” says my Lord, looking 
round at the scene, ‘‘ thou art hard to please, Rachel.” 


8 


The History of 

“ I am happy where you are,’’ she said, “ but we were 
happiest of all at Walcote Forest.” Then my Lord began to 
describe what was before them to his wife, and what indeed 
little Harry knew better than he — viz., the history of the house : 
how by yonder gate the page ran away with the heiress of 
Castlewood, by which the estate came into the present family ; 
how the Roundheads attacked the clock-tower, which my 
Lord’s father was slain in defending. “ I was but two years 
old then,” says he, ‘‘ but take forty-six from ninety, and how 
old shall I be, kinsman Harry ? ” 

“ Thirty,” says his wife, with a laugh. 

A great deal too old for you, Rachel,” answers my Lord, 
looking fondly down at her. Indeed she seemed to be a girl, 
and was at that time scarce twenty years old. 

“ You know, Frank, I will do anything to please you,” says 
she, “ and I promise you I will grow older every day.” 

‘‘ You mustn’t call papa Frank ; you must call papa my Lord 
now,” says Miss Beatrix, with a toss of her little head ; at 
which the mother smiled, and the good-natured father laughed, 
and the little trotting boy laughed, not knowing why — but 
because he was happy, no doubt — as every one seemed to be 
there. How those trivial incidents and words, the landscape 
and sunshine, and the group of people smiling and talking, 
remain fixed on the memory ! 

As the sun was setting, the little heir was sent in the arms 
of his nurse to bed, whither he went howling ; but little Trix 
was promised to sit to supper that night — ‘‘ And you will come 
too, kinsman, won’t you,” she said. 

Harry Esmond blushed : ‘‘ I — I have supper with Mrs 
Worksop,” says he. 

“ I) — n it,” says my Lord, thou shalt sup with us, Harry, 
to-night ! Shan’t refuse a lady, shall he, Trix ? ” — and they 
all wondered at Harry’s performance as a trencherman, in which 
character the poor boy acquitted himself very remarkably ; for 
the truth is he had had no dinner, nobody thinking of him in 
the bustle which the house was in, during the preparations 
antecedent to the new lord’s arrival. 

“ No dinner ! poor dear child ! ” says my Lady, heaping up 
his plate with meat, and my Lord, filling a bumper for him. 


9 


Henry Esmond 


bade him call a health ; on which Master Harry, crying, The 
tossed ofF the wine. My Lord was ready to drink that, 
and most other toasts : indeed only too ready. He would not 
hear of Dr Tusher (the Vicar of Castlewood, who came to 
supper) going away when the sweetmeats were brought : he 
had not had a chaplain long enough, he said, to be tired of him : 
so his reverence kept my Lord company for some hours over 
a pipe and a punch-bowl ; and went away home with rather a 
reeling gait, and declaring a dozen of times, that his Lordship’s 
affability surpassed every kindness he had ever had from his 
Lordship’s gracious family. 

As for young Esmond, when he got to his little chamber, it 
was with a heart full of surprise and gratitude towards the new 
friends whom this happy day had brought him. He was up 
and watching long before the house was astir, longing to see 
that fair lady and her children — that kind protector and patron ; 
and only fearful lest their welcome of the past night should 
in any way be withdrawn or altered. But presently little 
Beatrix came out into the garden, and her mother followed, 
who greeted Harry as kindly as before. He told her at 
greater length the histories of the house (which he had been 
taught in the old lord’s time), and to which she listened with 
great interest ; and then he told her, with respect to the 
night before, that he understood French, and thanked her for 
her protection. 

“ Do you ” says she, with a blush ; ‘‘ then, sir, you shall 
teach me and Beatrix.” And she asked him many more 
questions regarding himself, which had best be told more 
fully and explicitly than in those brief replies which the lad 
made to his mistress’s questions. 


Chapter II 

Relates how Francis, fourth Viscount, arrives at Castlewood 

’Tis known that the name of Esmond and the estate of Castle- 
wood, com. Hants, came into possession of the present family 
through Dorothea, daughter and heiress of Edward, Earl and 


lo The History of 

Marquis Esmond, and Lord of Castlewood, which lady married, 
23 Eliz., Henry Poyns, gent. ; the said Henry being then a 
page in the household of her father. Francis, son and heir of 
the above Henry and Dorothea, who took the maternal name 
which the family hath borne subsequently, was made Knight 
and Baronet by King James the First ; and being of a military 
disposition, remained long in Germany with the Elector-Pala- 
tine, in whose service Sir Francis incurred both expense and 
danger, lending large sums of money to that unfortunate 
Prince ; and receiving many wounds in the battles against 
the Imperialists, in which Sir Francis engaged. 

On his return home Sir Francis was rewarded for his services 
and many sacrifices, by his late Majesty James the First, who 
graciously conferred upon this tried servant the post of Warden 
of the Butteries and Groom of the King’s Posset, which high 
and confidential office he filled in that king’s and his unhappy 
successor’s reign. 

His age, and many wounds and infirmities, obliged Sir 
Francis to perform much of his duty by deputy ; and his son. 
Sir George Esmond, knight and banneret, first as his father’s 
lieutenant, and afterwards as inheritor of his father’s title and 
dignity, performed this office during almost the whole of the 
reign of King Charles the First, and his two sons who suc- 
ceeded him. 

Sir George Esmond married, rather beneath the rank that a 
person of his name and honour might aspire to, the daughter of 
Thos. Topham, of the city of London, alderman and gold- 
smith, who, taking the Parliamentary side in the troubles then 
commencing, disappointed Sir George of the property which 
he expected at the demise of his father-in-law, who devised 
his money to his second daughter, Barbara, a spinster. 

Sir George Esmond, on his part, was conspicuous for his 
attachment and loyalty to the Royal cause and person ; and the 
King being at Oxford in 1642, Sir George, with the consent 
of his father, then very aged and infirm, and residing at his 
house of Castlewood, melted the whole of the family plate for 
His Majesty’s service. 

For this, and other sacrifices and merits. His Majesty, by 
patent under the Privy Seal, dated Oxford, Jan. 1643, was 


Henry Esmond 1 1 

pleased to advance Sir Francis Esmond to the dignity of Vis- 
count Castlewood, of Shandon, in Ireland ; and the Viscount’s 
estate being much impoverished by loans to the King, which 
in those troublesome times His Majesty could not repay, a 
grant of land in the plantations of Virginia was given to the 
Lord Viscount ; part of which land is in possession of de- 
scendants of his family to the present day. 

The first Viscount Castlewood died full of years, and within 
a few months after he had been advanced to his honours. He 
was succeeded by his eldest son, the before-named George ; 
and left issue besides, Thomas, a colonel in the King’s army, 
who afterwards joined the Usurper’s Government ; and Francis, 
in holy orders, who was slain whilst defending the House of 
Castlewood against the Parliament, anno 1647. 

George Lord Castlewood (the second Viscount), of King 
Charles the First’s time, had no male issue save his one son, 
Eustace Esmond, who was killed, with half of the Castlewood 
men beside him, at Worcester fight. The lands about Castle- 
wood were sold and apportioned to the Commonwealth-men ; 
Castlewood being concerned in almost all of the plots against 
the Protector, after the death of the King, and up to King 
Charles the Second’s restoration. My Lord followed that 
King’s Court about in its exile, having ruined himself in its 
service. He had but one daughter, who was of no great 
comfort to her father ; for misfortune had not taught those 
exiles sobriety of life ; and it is said that the Duke of York 
and his brother the King both quarrelled about Isabel Esmond. 
She was maid of honour to the Queen Henrietta Maria j she 
early joined the Roman Church ; her father, a weak man, 
following her not long after at Breda. 

On the death of Eustace Esmond at Worcester, Thomas 
Esmond, nephew to my Lord Castlewood, and then a stripling, 
became heir to the title. His father had taken the Parliament 
side in the quarrels, and so had been estranged from the chief 
of his house ; and my Lord Castlewood was at first so much 
enraged to think that his title (albeit little more than an empty 
one now) should pass to a rascally Roundhead, that he would 
have married again, and indeed proposed to do so to a vintner’s 
daughter at Bruges, to whom his Lordship owed a score for 


12 


The History ot 

lodging when the King was there, but for fear of the laughter 
of the Court, and the anger of his daughter, of whom he stood 
in awe ; for she was in temper as imperious and violent as my 
Lord, who was much enfeebled by wounds and drinking, was 
weak. 

Lord Castlewood would have had a match between his 
daughter Isabel and her cousin, the son of that Francis Esmond 
who was killed at Castlewood siege. And the lady, it was 
said, took a fancy to the young man, who was her junior by 
several years (which circumstance she did not consider to be a 
fault in him) ; but having paid his court, and being admitted 
to the intimacy of the house, he suddenly flung up his suit, 
when it seemed to be pretty prosperous, without giving a 
pretext for his behaviour. His friends rallied him at what 
they laughingly chose to call his infidelity ; Jack Churchill, 
Frank Esmond’s lieutenant in the Royal Regiment of Foot- 
guards, getting the company which Esmond vacated, when he 
left the Court and went to Tangier in a rage at discovering 
that his promotion depended on the complaisance of his elderly 
affianced bride. He and Churchill, who had been condiscipuli 
at St Paul’s School, had words about this matter; and Frank 
Esmond said to him with an oath, ‘‘ Jack, your sister may be 
so-and-so, but by Jove my wife shan’t ! ” and swords were 
drawn, and blood drawn too, until friends separated them on 
this quarrel. Few men were so jealous about the point of 
honour in those days ; and gentlemen of good birth and 
lineage thought a royal blot was an ornament to their family 
coat. Frank Esmond retired in the sulks, first to Tangier, 
whence he returned after two years’ service, settling on a 
small property he had of his mother, near to Winchester, and 
became a country gentleman, and kept a pack of beagles, and 
never came to Court again in King Charles’s time. But his 
uncle Castlewood was never reconciled to him ; nor, for some 
time afterwards, his cousin whom he had refused. 

By places, pensions, bounties from France, and gifts from 
the King, whilst his daughter was in favour. Lord Castlewood, 
who had spent in the Royal service his youth and fortune, did 
not retrieve the latter quite, and never cared to visit Castle- 
wood, or repair it, since the death of his son, but managed to 


Henry Esmond 1 3 

keep a good house, and figure at Court, and to save a con- 
siderable sum of ready money. 

And now, his heir and nephew, Thomas Esmond, began to 
bid for his uncle’s favour. Thomas had served with the Em- 
peror, and with the Dutch, when King Charles was compelled 
to lend troops to the States, and against them, when His 
Majesty made an alliance with the French King. In these 
campaigns Thomas Esmond was more remarked for duelling, 
brawling, vice, and play, than for any conspicuous gallantry 
in the field, and came back to England, like many another 
English gentleman who has travelled, with a character by no 
means improved by his foreign experience. He had dissipated 
his small paternal inheritance of a younger brother’s portion, 
and, as truth must be told, was no better than a hanger-on of 
ordinaries, and a brawler about Alsatia and the Friars, when 
he bethought him of a means of mending his fortune. 

His cousin was now of more than middle age, and had 
nobody’s word but her own for the beauty which she said she 
once possessed. She was lean, and yellow, and long in the 
tooth ; all the red and white in all the toy-shops in London 
could not make a beauty of her — Mr Killigrew called her the 
Sibyl, the death’s-head put up at the King’s feast as a memento 
mori, &:c . — in fine, a woman who might be easy of conquest, 
but whom only a very bold man would think of conquering. 
This bold man was Thomas Esmond. He had a fancy to my 
Lord Castlewood’s savings, the amount of which rumour had 
very much exaggerated. Madame Isabel was said to have 
Royal jewels of great value ; whereas poor Tom Esmond’s 
last coat but one was in pawn. 

My Lord had at this time a fine house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 
nigh to the Duke’s Theatre and the Portugal ambassador’s 
chapel. Tom Esmond, who had frequented the one, as long 
as he had money to spend among the actresses, now came to 
the church as assiduously. He looked so lean and shabby, 
that he passed without difficulty for a repentant sinner ; and 
so, becoming converted, you may be sure took his uncle’s 
priest for a director. 

This charitable father reconciled him with the old lord his 
uncle, who a short time before would not speak to him, as 


14 The History of 

Tom passed under my Lord’s coach window, his Lordship going 
in state to his place at Court, while his nephew slunk by with his 
battered hat and feather, and the point of his rapier sticking 
out of the scabbard — to his twopenny ordinary in Bell Yard. 

Thomas Esmond, after this reconciliation with his uncle, 
very soon began to grow sleek, and to show signs of the 
benefits of good living and clean linen. He fasted rigorously 
twice a week, to be sure ; but he made amends on the other 
days: and, to show how great his appetite was, Mr Wycherley 
said, he ended by swallowing that fly-blown rank old morsel 
his cousin. There were endless jokes and lampoons about 
this marriage at Court : but Tom rode thither in his uncle’s 
coach now, called him father, and having won could afford to 
laugh. This marriage took place very shortly before King Charles 
died : whom the Viscount of Castlewood speedily followed. 

The issue of this marriage was one son, whom the parents 
watched with an intense eagerness and care ; but who, in spite 
of nurses and physicians, had only a brief existence. His 
tainted blood did not run very long in his poor feeble little 
body. Symptoms of evil broke out early on him ; and, part 
from flattery, part superstition, nothing would satisfy my Lord 
and Lady, especially the latter, but having the poor little 
cripple touched by His Majesty at his church. They were 
ready to cry out miracle at first (the doctors and quacksalvers 
being constantly in attendance on the child, and experimenting 
on his poor little body with every conceivable nostrum) — but 
though there seemed, from some reason, a notable amelioration 
in the infant’s health after His Majesty touched him, in a few 
weeks afterward the poor thing died — causing the lampooners 
of the Court to say, that the King in expelling evil out of the 
infant of Tom Esmond and Isabella his wife, expelled the life 
out of it, which was nothing but corruption. 

The mother’s natural pang at losing this poor little child 
must have been increased when she thought of her rival Frank 
Esmond’s wife, who was a favourite of the whole Court, where 
my poor Lady Castlewood was neglected, and who had one 
child, a daughter, flourishing and beautiful, and was about to 
become a mother once more. 

The Court, as I have heard, only laughed the more because 


15 


Henry Esmond 

the poor lady, who had pretty well passed the age when ladies 
are accustomed to have children, nevertheless determined not 
to give hope up, and even when she came to live at Castle- 
wood, was constantly sending over to Hexton for the doctor, 
and announcing to her friends the arrival of an heir. This 
absurdity of hers was one amongst many others which the wags 
used to play upon. Indeed, to the last days of her life, my Lady 
Viscountess had the comfort of fancying herself beautiful, and 
persisted in blooming up to the very midst of winter, painting 
roses on her cheeks long after their natural season, and attiring 
herself like summer though her head was covered with snow. 

Gentlemen who were about the Court of King Charles, and 
King James, have told the present writer a number of stories 
about this queer old lady, with which it’s not necessary that 
posterity should be entertained. She is said to have had great 
powers of invective ; and if she fought with all her rivals in 
King James’s favour, ’tis certain she must have had a vast 
number of quarrels on her hands. She was a woman of an 
intrepid spirit, and, it appears, pursued and rather fatigued His 
Majesty with her rights and her wrongs. Some say that the 
cause of her leaving Court was jealousy of Frank Esmond’s 
wife ; others, that she was forced to retreat after a great 
battle which took place at Whitehall, between her Ladyship 
and Lady Dorchester, Tom Killigrew’s daughter, whom the 
King delighted to honour, and in which that ill-favoured 
Esther got the better of our elderly Vashti. But her Lady- 
ship, for her part, always averred that it was her husband’s 
quarrel, and not her own, which occasioned the banishment of 
the two into the country ; and the cruel ingratitude of the 
Sovereign in giving away, out of the family, that place of 
Warden of the Butteries and Groom of the King’s Posset, 
which the two last Lords Castlewood had held so honourably, 
and which was now conferred upon a fellow of yesterday, and 
a hanger-on of that odious Dorchester creature, my Lord 
Bergamot ; * “ I never,” said my Lady, could have come to 

* Lionel Tipton, created Baron Bergamot, ann. 1686, Gentleman Usher of the 
Back Stairs, and afterwards appointed Warden of the Butteries and Groom of 
the King’s Posset (on the decease of George, second Viscount Castlewood), 
accompanied His Majesty to St Germain’s, where he died without issue. No 
Groom of the Posset was appointed by the Prince of Orange, nor hath there been 
such an officer in any succeeding reign. 


1 6 The History of 

see His Majesty’s posset carried by any other hand than an 
Esmond. I should have dashed the salver out of Lord Berga- 
mot’s hand had I met him.” And those who knew her 
Ladyship are aware that she was a person quite capable of 
performing this feat, had she not wisely kept out of the way. 

Holding the purse-strings in her own control, to which, in- 
deed, she liked to bring most persons who came near her. 
Lady Castlewood could command her husband’s obedience, 
and so broke up her establishment, at London ; she had 
removed from Lincoln’s Inn Fields to Chelsey, to a pretty new 
house she bought there ; and brought her establishment, her 
maids, lap-dogs, and gentlewomen, her priest, and his Lord- 
ship her husband, to Castlewood Hall, that she had never 
seen since she quitted it as a child with her father during the 
troubles of King Charles the First’s reign. The walls were 
still open in the old house as they had been left by the shot of 
the Commonwealth-men. A part of the mansion was restored 
and furbished up with the plate, hangings, and furniture 
brought from the house in London. My Lady meant to have 
a triumphal entry into Castlewood village, and expected the 
people to cheer as she drove over the Green in her great coach, 
my Lord beside her, her gentlewomen, lap-dogs, and cockatoos 
on the opposite seat, six horses to her carriage, and servants 
armed and mounted following it and preceding it. But ’twas in 
the height of the No-Popery cry ; the folks in the village and 
the neighbouring town were scared by the sight of her Lady- 
ship’s painted face and eyelids, as she bobbed her head out of 
the coach-window, meaning, no doubt, to be very gracious ; 
and one old woman said, “ Lady Isabel ! lord-a-mercy, it’s 
Lady Jezebel ! ” a name by which the enemies of the right 
honourable Viscountess were afterwards in the habit of de- 
signating her. The country was then in a great No-Popery 
fervour ; her Ladyship’s known conversion, and her husband’s, 
the priest in her train, and the service performed at the chapel 
of Castlewood (though the chapel had been built for that 
worship before any other was heard of in the country, and 
though the service was performed in the most quiet manner), 
got her no favour at first in the county or village. By far the 
greater part of the estate of Castlewood had been confiscated, 


Henry Esmond 1 7 

and been parcelled out to Commonwealth-men. One or two 
of these old Cromwellian soldiers were still alive in the village, 
and looked grimly at first upon my Lady Viscountess, when 
she came to dwell there. 

She appeared at the Hexton Assembly, bringing her lord 
after her, scaring the country folks with the splendour of her 
diamonds, which she always wore in public. They said she 
wore them in private, too, and slept with them round her 
neck ; though the writer can pledge his word that this was a 
calumny. “ If she were to take them off,” my Lady Sark said, 
“ Tom Esmond, her husband, would run away with them and 
pawn them.” ’Twas another calumny. My Lady Sark was 
also an exile from Court, and there had been war between the 
two ladies before. 

The village people began to be reconciled presently to their 
lady, who was generous and kind, though fantastic and haughty, 
in her ways, and whose praises Doctor Tusher, the Vicar, 
sounded loudly amongst his flock. As for my Lord, he gave no 
great trouble, being considered scarce more than an appendage 
to my Lady, who, as daughter of the old lords of Castlewood, 
and possessor of vast wealth, as the country folks said (though 
indeed nine-tenths of it existed but in rumour), was looked 
upon as the real queen of the castle, and mistress of all it 
contained. 

Chapter III 

Whither, in the Time of Thomas, third Viscount, I had preceded 
him as Page to Isabella 

Coming up to London again some short time after this retreat, 
the Lord Castlewood despatched a retainer of his to a little 
cottage in the village of Ealing, near to London, where for 
some time had dwelt an old French refugee, by name Mr 
Pastoureau, one of those whom the persecution of the Hugue- 
nots by the French King had brought over to this country. 
With this old man lived a little lad, who went by the name of 
Henry Thomas. He remembered to have lived in another 
place a short time before, near to London too, amongst looms 

B 


i8 The History of 

and spinning-wheels, and a great deal of psalm-singing and 
church-going, and a whole colony of Frenchmen. 

There he had a dear dear friend, who died, and whom he 
called Aunt. She used to visit him in his dreams sometimes ; 
and her face, though it was homely, was a thousand times 
dearer to him than that of Mrs Pastoureau, Bon Papa Pas- 
toureau’s new wife, who came to live with him after Aunt 
went away. And there, at Spittlefields, as it used to be 
called, lived Uncle George, who was a weaver too, but used 
to tell Harry that he was a little gentleman, and that his 
father was a captain, and his mother an angel. 

When he said so. Bon Papa used to look up from the loom 
where he was embroidering beautiful silk flowers, and say, 
‘‘ Angel ! she belongs to the Babylonish scarlet woman.” Bon 
Papa was always talking of the scarlet woman. He had a 
little room where he always used to preach and sing hymns 
out of his great old nose. Little Harry did not like the preach- 
ing : he liked better the fine stories which Aunt used to tell 
him. Bon Papa’s wife never told him pretty stories ; she 
quarrelled with Uncle George, and he went away. 

After this, Harry’s Bon Papa and his wife and two children 
of her own that she brought with her, came to live at Ealing. 
The new wife gave her children the best of everything and 
Harry many a whipping, he knew not why. Besides blows, 
he got ill names from her, which need not be set down here, 
for the sake of old Mr Pastoureau, who was still kind some- 
times. The unhappiness of those days is long forgiven, though 
they cast a shade of melancholy over the child’s youth, which 
will accompany him, no doubt, to the end of his days : as those 
tender twigs are bent the trees grow afterward ; and he, at 
least, who has suffered as a child, and is not quite perverted in 
that early school of unhappiness, learns to be gentle and long- 
suffering with little children. 

Harry was very glad when a gentleman dressed in black, on 
horseback, with a mounted servant behind him, came to fetch 
him away from Ealing. The noverca, or unjust step-mother, 
who had neglected him for her own two children, gave him 
supper enough the night before he went away, and plenty in 
the morning. She did not beat him once, and told the children 


19 


Henry Esmond 

to keep their hands off him. One was a girl, and Harry never 
could bear to strike a girl ; and the other was a boy, whom he 
could easily have beat, but he always cried out, when Mrs 
Pastoureau came sailing to the rescue with arms like a flail. 
She only washed Harry’s face the day he went away ; nor ever 
so much as once boxed his ears. She whimpered rather when 
the gentleman in black came for the boy ; and old Mr Pas- 
toureau, as he gave the child his blessing, scowled over his 
shoulder at the strange gentleman, and grumbled out some- 
thing about Babylon and the scarlet lady. He was grown 
quite old, like a child almost. Mrs Pastoureau used to wipe 
his nose as she did to the children. She was a great, big, 
handsome young woman ; but, though she pretended to cry, 
Harry thought ’twas only a sham, and sprang quite delighted 
upon the horse upon which the lacquey helped him. 

He was a Frenchman, his name was I31aise. The child could 
talk to him in his own language perfectly well : he knew it 
better than English indeed, having lived hitherto chiefly among 
French people : and being called the Little Frenchman by other 
boys on Ealing Green. He soon learnt to speak English per- 
fectly, and to forget some of his French; children forget easily. 
Some earlier and fainter recollections the child had of a different 
country ; and a town with tall white houses ; and a ship. But 
thesewerequite indistinct in the boy’s mind, as indeed the memory 
of Ealing soon became, at least of much that he suffered there. 

The lacquey before whom he rode was very lively and 
voluble, and informed the boy that the gentleman riding before 
him was my lord’s chaplain. Father Holt — that he was now to 
be called Master Harry Esmond — that my Lord Viscount 
Castlewood was his parrain — that he was to live at the great 

house of Castlewood, in the province of shire, where he 

would see Madame the Viscountess, who was a grand lady. 
And so, seated on a cloth before Blaise’s saddle, Harry Esmond 
was brought to London, and to a fine square called Covent 
Garden, near to which his patron lodged. 

Mr Holt, the priest, took the child by the hand, and brought 
him to this nobleman, a grand languid nobleman in a great cap 
and flowered morning-gown, sucking oranges. He patted 
Harry on the head and gave him an orange. 


20 


The History of 

‘‘ Cest bien 9a,” he said to the priest, after eyeing the child, 
and the gentleman in black shrugged his shoulders. 

‘‘ Let Blaise take him out for a holiday,” and out for a 
holiday the boy and the valet went. Harry went jumping 
along ; he was glad enough to go. 

He will remember to his life’s end the delights of those 
days. He was taken to see a play by Monsieur Blaise, in a 
house a thousand times greater and finer than the booth at 
Ealing Fair — and on the next happy day they took water on 
the river, and Harry saw London Bridge, with the houses and 
booksellers’ shops thereon, looking like a street, and the 
Tower of London, with the armour, and the great lions 
and bears in the moat — all under company of Monsieur 
Blaise. 

Presently, of an early morning, all the party set forth for the 
country, namely, my Lord Viscount and the other gentleman ; 
Monsieur Blaise and Harry on a pillion behind them, and two 
or three men with pistols leading the baggage-horses. And 
all along the road the Frenchman told little Harry stories of 
brigands, which made the child’s hair stand on end, and terri- 
fied him ; so that at the great gloomy inn on the road where 
they lay, he besought to be allowed to sleep in a room with 
one of the servants, and was compassionated by Mr Holt, the 
gentleman who travelled with my lord, and who gave the 
child a little bed in his chamber. 

His artless talk and answers very likely inclined this gentle- 
man in the boy’s favour, for next day Mr Holt said Harry 
should ride behind him, and not with the French lacquey ; 
and all along the journey put a thousand questions to the 
child — as to his foster-brother and relations at Ealing ; what 
his old grandfather had taught him; what languages he 
knew; whether he could read and write, and sing, and so 
forth. And Mr Holt found that Harry could read and write, 
and possessed the two languages of French and English very 
well ; and when he asked Harry about singing, the lad broke 
out with a hymn to the tune of Dr Martin Luther, which set 
Mr Holt a-laughing ; and even caused his grand parrain in 
the laced hat and periwig to laugh too when Holt told him 
what the child was singing. For it appeared that Dr Martin 


Henry Esmond 2 1 

Luther’s hymns were not sung in the churches Mr Holt 
preached at. 

‘‘ You must never sing that song any more ; do you hear, 
little mannikin ? ” says my Lord Viscount, holding up a finger. 

‘‘But we will try and teach you a better, Harry,” Mr Holt 
said; and the child answered, for he was a docile child, and 
of an affectionate nature, “ that he loved pretty songs, and 
would try and learn anything the gentleman would tell him.” 
That day he so pleased the gentlemen by his talk, that they 
had him to dine with them at the inn, and encouraged him 
in his prattle ; and Monsieur Blaise, with whom he rode and 
dined the day before, waited upon him now. 

“ ’Tis well, ’tis well ! ” said Blaise, that night (in his own 
language) when they lay again at an inn. “We are a little 
lord here ; we are a little lord now ; we shall see what we are 
when we come to Castlewood, where my Lady is.” 

“When shall we come to Castlewood, Monsieur Blaise.'^” 
says Harry. 

“ Parhleu ! my Lord does not press himself,” Blaise says, 
with a grin ; and, indeed, it seemed as if his Lordship was not 
in a great hurry, for he spent three days on that journey, 
which Harry Esmond hath often since ridden in a dozen 
hours. For the last two of the days Harry rode with the 
priest, who was so kind to him, that the child had grown to 
be quite fond and familiar with him by the journey’s end, 
and had scarce a thought in his little heart which by that time 
he had not confided to his new friend. 

At length, on the third day, at evening, they came to a 
village standing on a green with elms round it, very pretty 
to look at ; and the people there all took off their hats, and 
made curtseys to my Lord Viscount, who bowed to them 
all languidly ; and there was one portly person that wore a 
cassock and a broadleafed hat, who bowed lower than any 
one — and with this one both my Lord and Mr Holt had a few 
words. “ This, Harry, is Castlewood Church,” says Mr Holt, 
“ and this is the pillar thereof, learned Doctor Tusher. Take 
off your hat, sirrah, and salute Doctor Tusher ! ” 

“ Come up to supper. Doctor,” says my Lord ; at which 
the Doctor made another low bow, and the party moved on 


22 


The History of 

towards a grand house that was before them, with many grey 
towers and vanes on them, and windows flaming in the sun- 
shine ; and a great army of rooks, wheeling over their heads, 
made for the woods behind the house, as Harry saw ; and Mr 
Holt told him that they lived at Castlewood too. 

They came to the house, and passed under an arch into a 
courtyard, with a fountain in the centre, where many men 
came and held my lord’s stirrup as he descended, and paid 
great respect to Mr Holt likewise. And the child thought 
that the servants looked at him curiously, and smiled to one 
another — and he recalled what Blaise had said to him when 
they were in London, and Harry had spoken about his god- 
papa, when the Frenchman said, Parbleu, one sees well that 
my Lord is your godfather ; ” words whereof the poor lad did 
not know the meaning then, though he apprehended the truth 
in a very short time afterwards, and learnt it, and thought of 
it with no small feeling of shame. 

Taking Harry by the hand as soon as they were both de- 
scended from their horses, Mr Holt led him across the court, 
and under a low door to rooms on a level with the ground ; 
one of which Father Holt said was to be the boy’s chamber, 
the other on the other side of the passage being the Father’s 
own ; and as soon as the little man’s face was washed, and 
the Father’s own dress arranged, Harry’s guide took him once 
more to the door by which my Lord had entered the hall, and 
up a stair, and through an ante-room to my Lady’s drawing- 
room — an apartment than which Harry thought he had never 
seen anything more grand — no, not in the Tower of London, 
which he had just visited. Indeed, the chamber was richly 
ornamented in the manner of Queen Elizabeth’s time, with 
great stained windows at either end, and hangings of tapestry, 
which the sun shining through the coloured glass painted of a 
thousand hues ; and here in state, by the fire, sate a lady, to 
whom the priest took up Harry, who was indeed amazed by 
her appearance. 

My Lady Viscountess’s face was daubed with white and red 
up to the eyes, to which the paint gave an unearthly glare ; 
she had a tower of lace on her head, under which was a bush 
of black curls — borrowed curls — so that no wonder little Harry 


23 


Henry Esmond 

Esmond was scared when he was first presented to her — the 
kind priest acting as master of the ceremonies at that solemn 
introduction — and he stared at her with eyes almost as great as 
her own, as he had stared at the player woman who acted the 
wicked tragedy-queen, when the players came down to Ealing 
Fair. She sate in a great chair by the fire-corner ; in her lap 
was a spaniel dog that barked furiously ; on a little table by 
her was her Ladyship's snuff-box and her sugar-plum box. 
She wore a dress of black velvet, and a petticoat of flame- 
coloured brocade. She had as many rings on her fingers as 
the old woman of Banbury Cross ; and pretty small feet 
which she was fond of showing, with great gold clocks to 
her stockings, and white pantofles with red heels ; and an 
odour of musk was shook out of her garments whenever she 
moved or quitted the room, leaning on her tortoiseshell stick, 
little Fury barking at her heels. 

Mrs Tusher, the parson’s wife, was with my Lady. She 
had been waiting-woman to her Ladyship in the late Lord’s 
time, and, having her soul in that business, took naturally to 
it when the Viscountess of Castlewood returned to inhabit her 
father’s house. 

‘‘ I present to your Ladyship your kinsman and little page of 
honour. Master Henry Esmond,” Mr Holt said, bowing lowly, 
with a sort of comical humility. “ Make a pretty bow to my 
Lady, Monsieur ; and then another little bow, not so low, to 
Madame Tusher — the fair priestess of Castlewood.” 

‘‘ Where I have lived and hope to die, sir,” says Madame 
Tusher, giving a hard glance at the brat, and then at my 
Lady. 

Upon her the boy’s whole attention was for a time directed. 
He could not keep his great eyes off from her. Since the 
Empress of Ealing, he had seen nothing so awful. 

‘‘Does my appearance please you, little page?” asked the 
lady. 

“ He would be very hard to please if it didn’t,” cried Madame 
Tusher. 

“ Have done, you silly Maria,” said Lady Castlewood. 

“ Where I’m attached, I’m attached, Madame — and I’d die 
rather than not say so,” 


24 


The History of 

‘‘ Je meurs ou je m’attache,” Mr Holt said, with a polite 
grin. “ The ivy says so in the picture, and clings to the oak 
like a fond parasite as it is.” 

‘‘ Parricide, sir ! ” cries Mrs Tusher. 

Hush, Tusher — you are always bickering with Father 
Holt,” cried my Lady. ‘‘ Come and kiss my hand, child ; ” 
and the oak held out a branch to little Harry Esmond, who 
took and dutifully kissed the lean old hand, upon the gnarled 
knuckles of which there glittered a hundred rings. 

“ To kiss that hand would make many a pretty fellow 
happy ! ” cried Mrs Tusher : on which my Lady crying out 
‘‘ Go, you foolish Tusher ! ” and tapping her with her great 
fan, Tusher ran forward to seize her hand and kiss it. Fury 
arose and barked furiously at Tusher ; and Father Holt looked 
on at this queer scene, with arch, grave glances. 

The awe exhibited by the little boy perhaps pleased the 
lady to whom this artless flattery was bestowed ; for having 
gone down on his knee (as Father Holt had directed him, and 
the mode then was) and performed his obeisance, she said, 
“ Page Esmond, my groom of the chamber will inform you what 
your duties are, when you wait upon my Lord and me ; and 
good Father Holt will instruct you as becomes a gentleman of 
our name. You will pay him obedience in everything, and I 
pray you may grow to be as learned and as good as your tutor.” 

The lady seemed to have the greatest reverence for Mr 
Holt, and to be more afraid of him than of anything else in 
the world. If she was ever so angry, a word or look from 
Father Holt made her calm ; indeed, he had a vast power of 
subjecting those who came near him; and, among the rest, 
his new pupil gave himself up with an entire confidence and 
attachment to the good Father, and became his willing slave 
almost from the first moment he saw him. 

He put his small hand into the Father’s as he walked away 
from his first presentation to his mistress, and asked many 
questions in his artless childish way. “Who is that other 
woman.?” he asked. “She is fat and round; she is more 
pretty than my Lady Castlewood.” 

“She is Madame Tusher, the parson’s wife of Castlewood. 
She has a son of your age, but bigger than you.” 


Henry Esmond 25 

‘‘ Why does she like so to kiss my Lady’s hand ? It is not 
good to kiss.” 

‘‘Tastes are different, little man. Madame Tusher is 
attached to my Lady, having been her waiting-woman before 
she was married, in the old lord’s time. She married Doctor 
Tusher the chaplain. The English household divines often 
marry the waiting-women.” 

“ You will not marry the French woman, will you ? I saw 
her laughing with Blaise in the buttery.” 

“ I belong to a Church that is older and better than the 
English Church,” Mr Holt said (making a sign whereof Esmond 
did not then understand the meaning, across his breast and 
forehead); “in our Church the clergy do not marry. You 
will understand these things better soon.” 

“Was not Saint Peter the head of your Church? — Dr 
Rabbits of Ealing told us so.” 

The Father said, “ Yes, he was.” 

“ But Saint Peter was married, for we heard only last Sunday 
that hiswife’s mother laysick of the fever.” Onwhich the Father 
again laughed, and said he would understand this too better soon, 
and talked of other things, and took away Harry Esmond, and 
showed him the great old house which he had come to inhabit. 

It stood on a rising green hill, with woods behind it, in 
which were rooks’ nests, where the birds at morning and 
returning home at evening made a great cawing. At the foot 
of the hill was a river, with a steep ancient bridge crossing it ; 
and beyond that a large, pleasant green flat, where the village 
of Castlewood stood, and stands, with the church in the midst, 
the parsonage hard by it, the inn with the blacksmith’s forge 
beside it, and the sign of the “Three Castles” on the elm. 
The London road stretched away towards the rising sun, and 
to the west were swelling hills and peaks, behind which many a 
time Harry Esmond saw the same sun setting, that he now looks 
on thousands of miles away across the great ocean — in a new 
Castlewood, by another stream that bears, like the new country 
of wandering ^neas, the fond names of the land of his youth. 

The Hall of Castlewood was built with two courts, whereof 
one only, the fountain-court, was now inhabited, the other 
having been battered down in the Cromwellian wars. In the 


26 


The History of 

fountain-court, still in good repair, was the great hall, near to 
the kitchen and butteries ; a dozen of living-rooms looking to 
the north, and communicating with the little chapel that faced 
eastwards and the buildings stretching from that to the main 
gate, and with the hall (which looked to the west) into the 
court now dismantled. This court had been the most magnifi- 
cent of the two, until the Protector’s cannon tore down one 
side of it before the place was taken and stormed. The 
besiegers entered at the terrace under the clock-tower, slay- 
ing every man of the garrison, and at their head my Lord’s 
brother, Francis Esmond. 

The Restoration did not bring enough money to the Lord 
Castlewood to restore this ruined part of his house ; where 
were the morning parlours, above them the long music-gallery, 
and before which stretched the garden-terrace, where, how- 
ever, the flowers grew again which the boots of the Round- 
heads had trodden in their assault, and which was restored 
without much cost, and only a little care, by both ladies who 
succeeded the second Viscount in the government of this 
mansion. Round the terrace garden was a low wall with a 
wicket leading to the wooded height beyond, that is called 
Cromwell’s Battery to this day. 

Young Harry Esmond learned the domestic part of his duty, 
which was easy enough, from the groom of her Ladyship’s 
chamber ; serving the Countess, as the custom commonly was 
in his boyhood, as page, waiting at her chair, bringing her 
scented water and the silver basin after dinner — sitting on her 
carriage-step on state occasions, or on public days introducing 
her company to her. This was chiefly of the Catholic gentry, 
of whom there were a pretty many in the country and neigh- 
bouring city ; and who rode not seldom to Castlewood to partake 
of the hospitalities there. In the second year of their residence, 
the company seemed especially to increase. My Lord and my 
Lady were seldom without visitors, in whose society it was 
curious to contrast the difference of behaviour between Father 
Holt, the director of the family, and Doctor Tusher, the rector 
of the parish — Mr Holt moving amongst the very highest as 
quite their equal, and as commanding them all ; while poor 
Doctor Tusher, whose position was indeed a difficult one. 


Henry Esmond 27 

having been chaplain once to the Hall, and still to the Pro- 
testant servants there, seemed more like an usher than an 
equal, and always rose to go away after the first course. 

Also there came in these times to Father Holt many private 
visitors, whom, after a little, Henry Esmond had little diffi- 
culty in recognising as ecclesiastics of the Father’s persuasion, 
whatever their dresses (and they adopted all) might be. These 
were closeted with the Father constantly, and often came and 
rode away without paying their devoirs to my Lord and Lady 
— to the Lady and Lord rather — his Lordship being little more 
than a cipher in the house, and entirely under his domineering 
partner. A little fowling, a little hunting, a great deal of 
sleep, and a long time at cards and table, carried through one 
day after another with his Lordship. When meetings took 
place in this second year, which often would happen with 
closed doors, the page found my Lord’s sheet of paper scrib- 
bled over with dogs and horses, and ’twas said he had much 
ado to keep himself awake at these councils •, the Countess 
ruling over them, and he acting as little more than her secretary. 

Father Holt began speedily to be so much occupied with 
these meetings as rather to neglect the education of the little 
lad who so gladly put himself under the kind priest’s orders. 
At first they read much and regularly, both in Latin and 
French ; the Father not neglecting in anything to impress his 
faith upon his pupil, but not forcing him violently, and treating 
him with a delicacy and kindness which surprised and attached 
the child, always more easily won by these methods than by 
any severe exercise of authority. And his delight in their 
walks was to tell Harry of the glories of his order, of its 
martyrs and heroes, of its Brethren converting the heathen by 
myriads, traversing the desert, facing the stake, ruling the 
courts and councils, or braving the tortures of kings ; so that 
Harry Esmond thought that to belong to the Jesuits was the 
greatest prize of life and bravest end of ambition ; the greatest 
career here, and in heaven the surest reward ; and began to 
long for the day, not only when he should enter into the one 
Church and receive his first communion, but when he might 
join that wonderful brotherhood, which was present through- 
out all the world, and which numbered the wisest, the bravest. 


28 


The History of 

the highest born, the most eloquent of men among its members. 
Father Holt bade him keep his views secret, and to hide them 
as a great treasure which would escape him if it was revealed ; 
and, proud of this confidence and secret vested in him, the lad 
became fondly attached to the master who initiated him into 
a mystery so wonderful and awful. And when little Tom 
Tusher, his neighbour, came from school for his holiday, and 
said how he, too, was to be bred up for an English priest, and 
would get what he called an exhibition from his school, and 
then a college scholarship and fellowship, and then a good 
living — it tasked young Harry Esmond’s powers of reticence 
not to say to his young companion, ‘‘ Church ! priesthood ! 
fat living ! My dear Tommy, do you call yours a Church and 
a priesthood ? What is a fat living compared to converting a 
hundred thousand heathens by a single sermon ? What is a 
scholarship at Trinity by the side of a crown of martyrdom, 
with angels awaiting you as your head is taken off? Could 
your master at school sail over the Thames on his gown ? 
Have you statues in your church that can bleed, speak, walk, 
and cry ? My good Tommy, in dear Father Holt’s church 
these things take place every day. You know Saint Philip of 
the Willows appeared to Lord Castlewood, and caused him 
to turn to the one true Church. No saints ever come to you.” 
And Harry Esmond, because of his promise to Father Holt, 
hiding away these treasures of faith from T. Tusher, delivered 
himself of them nevertheless simply to Father Holt; who 
stroked his head, smiled at him with his inscrutable look, and 
told him that he did well to meditate on these great things, 
and not to talk of them except under direction. 

Chapter IV 

I am Placed under a Popish Priest and Bred to that Religion — 
Viscountess Castlewood 

Had time enough been given, and his childish inclinations 
been properly nurtured, Harry Esmond had been a Jesuit 
priest ere he was a dozen years older, and might have 


29 


Henry Esmond 

finished his days a martyr in China or a victim on Tower Hill: 
for, in the few months they spent together at Castlewood, Mr 
Holt obtained an entire mastery over the boy’s intellect and 
affections ; and had brought him to think, as indeed Father 
Holt thought with all his heart too, that no life was so noble, 
no death so desirable, as that which many brethren of his 
famous order were ready to undergo. By love, by brightness 
of wit and good-humour that charmed all. by an authority 
which he knew how to assume, by a mystery and silence 
about him which increased the child’s reverence for him, he 
won Harry’s absolute fealty, and would have kept it doubtless, 
if schemes greater and more important than a poor little boy’s 
admission into orders had not called him away. 

After being at home for a few months in tranquillity (if 
theirs might be called tranquillity, which was, in truth, a 
constant bickering), my Lord and Lady left the country for 
London, taking their director with them ; and his little pupil 
scarce ever shed more bitter tears in his life than he did for 
nights after the first parting with his dear friend, as he lay 
in the lonely chamber next to that which the Father used to 
occupy. He and a few domestics were left as the only tenants 
of the great house : and, though Harry sedulously did all the 
tasks which the Father set him, he had many hours unoccupied, 
and read in the library, and bewildered his little brains with 
the great books he found there. 

After a while, the little lad grew accustomed to the loneli- 
ness of the place ; and in after days remembered this part of 
his life as a period not unhappy. When the family was at 
London the whole of the establishment travelled thither with 
the exception of the porter — who was, moreover, brewer, 
gardener, and woodman — and his wife and children. These 
had their lodging in the gate-house hard by, with a door into 
the court ; and a window looking out on the green was the 
Chaplain’s room; and next to this a small chamber where 
Father Holt had his books, and Harry Esmond his sleeping- 
closet. The side of the house facing the east had escaped the 
guns of the Cromwellians, whose battery was on the height 
facing the western court ; so that this eastern end bore few 
marks of demolition, save in the chapel, where the painted 


30 


The History of 

windows surviving Edward the Sixth had been broke by the 
Commonwealth-men. In Father Holt’s time little Harry 
Esmond acted as his familiar, and faithful little servitor ; 
beating his clothes, folding his vestments, fetching his water 
from the well long before daylight, ready to run anywhere 
for the service of his beloved priest. When the Father was 
away, he locked his private chamber ; but the room where 
the books were was left to little Harry, who, but for the 
society of this gentleman, was little less solitary when Lord 
Castlewood was at home. 

The French wit saith that a hero is none to his valet-de- 
chambrcy and it required less quick eyes than my Lady’s little 
page was naturally endowed with, to see that she had many 
qualities by no means heroic, however much Mrs Tusher 
might flatter and coax her. When Father Holt was not by, 
who exercised an entire authority over the pair, my Lord and 
my Lady quarrelled and abused each other so as to make the 
servants laugh, and to frighten the little page on duty. The 
poor boy trembled before his mistress, who called him by a 
hundred ugly names, who made nothing of boxing his ears, 
and tilting the silver basin in his face which it was his business 
to present to her after dinner. She hath repaired, by sub- 
sequent kindness to him, these severities, which it must be 
owned made his childhood very unhappy. She was but 
unhappy herself at this time, poor soul ! and I suppose made 
her dependants lead her own sad life. I think my Lord was 
as much afraid of her as her page was, and the only person 
of the household who mastered her was Mr Holt. Harry 
was only too glad when the Father dined at table, and to 
slink away and prattle with him afterwards, or read with him, 
or walk with him. Luckily my Lady Viscountess did not rise 
till noon. Heaven help the poor waiting-woman who had 
charge of her toilette ! I have often seen the poor wretch 
come out with red eyes from the closet where those long and 
mysterious rites of her Ladyship’s dress were performed, and 
the back-gammon box locked up with a rap on Mrs Tusher’s 
fingers when she played ill, or the game was going the 
wrong way. 

Blessed be the king who introduced cards, and the kind 


31 


Henry Esmond 

inventors of piquet and cribbage, for they employed six hours 
at least of her Ladyship’s day, during which her family was 
pretty easy. Without this occupation my Lady frequently 
declared she should die. Her dependants one after another 
relieved guard — ’twas rather a dangerous post to play with 
her Ladyship — and took the cards turn about. Mr Holt 
would sit with her at piquet during hours together, at which 
time she behaved herself properly ; and as for Dr Tusher, I 
believe he would have left a parishioner’s dying bed, if sum- 
moned to play a rubber with his patroness at Castlewood. 
Sometimes, when they were pretty comfortable together, my 
Lord took a hand. Besides these, my Lady had her faithful 
poor Tusher, and one, two, three gentlewomen whom Harry 
Esmond could recollect in his time. They could not bear 
that genteel service very long ; one after another tried and 
failed at it. These and the housekeeper, and little Harry 
Esmond, had a table of their own. Poor ladies ! their life 
was far harder than the page’s. He was sound asleep, tucked 
up in his little bed, whilst they were sitting by her Ladyship 
reading her to sleep, with the “ News Letter,” or the Grand 
Cyrus.” My Lady used to have boxes of new plays from 
London, and Harry was forbidden, under the pain of a whip- 
ping, to look into them. I am afraid he deserved the penalty 
pretty often, and got it sometimes. Father Holt applied it 
twice or thrice, when he caught the young scapegrace with a 
delightful wicked comedy of Mr Shadwell’s or Mr Wycherley’s 
under his pillow. 

These, when he took any, were my Lord’s favourite reading. 
But he was averse to much study, and, as his little page 
fancied, to much occupation of any sort. 

It always seemed to young Harry Esmond that my Lord 
treated him with more kindness when his lady was not present, 
and Lord Castlewood would take the lad sometimes on his 
little journeys a-hunting or a-birding ; he loved to play at 
cards and tric-trac with him, which games the boy learned to 
pleasure his lord : and was growing to like him better daily, 
showing a special pleasure if Father Holt gave a good report 
of him, patting him on the head, and promising that he would 
provide for the boy. However, in my Lady’s presence, my 


32 


The History of 

Lord showed no such marks of kindness, and affected to treat 
the lad roughly, and rebuked him sharply for little faults, for 
which he in a manner asked pardon of young Esmond when 
they were private, saying if he did not speak roughly, she 
would, and his tongue was not such a bad one as his lady’s — a 
point whereof the boy, young as he was, was very well assured. 

Great public events were happening all this while, of which 
the simple young page took little count. But one day, riding 
into the neighbouring town on the step of my Lady’s coach, 
his Lordship and she and Father Holt being inside, a great 
mob of people came hooting and jeering round the coach, 
bawling out, “ The Bishops for ever ! ” ‘‘ Down with the 
Pope ! ” “ No Popery ! no Popery ! Jezebel ! Jezebel ! ” so 
that my Lord began to laugh, my Lady’s eyes to roll with 
anger, for she was as bold as a lioness, and feared nobody ; 
whilst Mr Holt, as Esmond saw from his place on the step, 
sank back with rather an alarmed face, crying out to her 
Ladyship, “ For God’s sake, madame, do not speak or look 
out of window ; sit still.” But she did not obey this prudent 
injunction of the Father ; she thrust her head out of the coach 
window, and screamed out to the coachman, “ Flog your way 
through them, the brutes, James, and use your whip ! ” 

The mob answered with a roaring jeer of laughter, and 
fresh cries of “ Jezebel ! Jezebel ! ” My Lord only laughed 
the more : he was a languid gentleman : nothing seemed to 
excite him commonly, though I have seen him cheer and 
halloo the hounds very briskly, and his face (which was 
generally very yellow and calm) gibw quite red and cheerful 
during a burst over the Downs after a hare, and laugh, and 
swear, and huzzah at a cockfight, of which sport he was very 
fond. And now, when the mob began to hoot his lady, he 
laughed with something of a mischievous look, as though he 
expected sport, and thought that she and they were a match. 

James the coachman was more afraid of his mistress than the 
mob, probably, for he whipped on his horses as he was bidden, 
and the post-boy that rode with the first pair (my Lady always 
rode with her coach-and-six) gave a cut of his thong over the 
shoulders of one fellow who put his hand out towards the 
leading horse’s rein. 



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33 


Henry Esmond 

It was a market-day, and the country people were all assem- 
bled with their baskets of poultry, eggs, and such things ; the 
postillion had no sooner lashed the man who would have taken 
hold of his horse, but a great cabbage came whirling like a 
bombshell into the carriage, at which my Lord laughed more, 
for it knocked my Lady’s fan out of her hand, and plumped 
into Father Holt’s stomach. Then came a shower of carrots 
and potatoes. 

For Heaven’s sake be still ! ” says Mr Holt ; ‘‘ we are not 
ten paces from the ‘ Bell ’ archway, where they can shut the 
gates on us, and keep out this canaille^ 

The little page was outside the coach on the step, and a 
fellow in the crowd aimed a potato at him, and hit him in the 
eye, at which the poor little wretch set up a shout ; the man 
laughed, a great big saddler’s apprentice of the town. “ Ah ! 

you d little yelling Popish bastard,” he said, and stooped 

to pick up another ; the crowd had gathered quite between the 
horses and the inn-door by this time, and the coach was brought 
to a dead stand-still. My Lord jumped as briskly as a boy out 
of the door on his side of the coach, squeezing little Harry 
behind it ; had hold of the potato-thrower’s collar in an instant, 
and the next moment the brute’s heels were in the air, and he 
fell on the stones with a thump. 

‘‘ You hulking coward ! ” says he ; “ you pack of scream- 
ing blackguards ! how dare you attack children, and insult 
women ? Fling another shot at that carriage, you sneaking 
pigskin cobbler, and by the Lord I’ll send my rapier through 
you ! ” 

Some of the mob cried, “ Huzzah, my Lord ! ” for they 
knew him, and the saddler’s man was a known bruiser, near 
twice as big as my Lord Viscount. 

‘‘ Make way there,” said he (he spoke in a high shrill voice, 
but with a great air of authority). ‘‘ Make way, and let her 
Ladyship’s carriage pass.” The men that were between the 
coach and the gate of the ‘‘Bell” actually did make way, and 
the horses went in, my Lord walking after them with his hat 
on his head. 

As he was going in at the gate, through which the coach 
had just rolled, another cry begins, of “No Popery — no 

c 


34 


The History of 

Papists ! ” My Lord turns round and faces them once 
more. 

‘‘ God save the King ! ” says he at the highest pitch of his 
voice. “ Who dares abuse the King’s religion ? You, you 

d d psalm-singing cobbler, as sure as I’m a magistrate of 

this county I’ll commit you ! ” The fellow shrank back, and 
my Lord retreated with all the honours of the day. But 
when the little flurry caused by the scene was over, and the 
flush passed off his face, he relapsed into his usual languor, 
trifled with his little dog, and yawned when my Lady spoke 
to him. 

This mob was one of many thousands that were going about 
the country at that time, huzzahing for the acquittal of the 
seven bishops who had been tried just then, and about whom 
little Harry Esmond at that time knew scarce anything. It 
was Assizes at Hexton, and there was a great meeting of the 
gentry at the “Bell”; and my Lord’s people had their new 
liveries on, and Harry a little suit of blue-and-silver, which he 
wore upon occasions of state ; and the gentlefolks came round 
and talked to my Lord ; and a judge in a red gown, who 
seemed a very great personage, especially complimented him 
and my Lady, who was mighty grand. Harry remembers 
her train borne up by her gentlewoman. There was an 
assembly and ball at the great room at the “ Bell,” and other 
young gentlemen of the county families looked on as he did. 
One of them jeered him for his black eye, which was swelled 
by the potato, and another called him a bastard, on which he 
and Harry fell to fisticuffs. My Lord’s cousin. Colonel Esmond 
of Walcote, was there, and separated the two lads — a great 
tall gentleman, with a handsome good-natured face. The boy 
did not know how nearly in after-life he should be allied to 
Colonel Esmond, and how much kindness he should have to 
owe him. 

There was little love between the two families. My Lady 
used not to spare Colonel Esmond in talking of him, for 
reasons which have been hinted already ; but about which, 
at his tender age, Henry Esmond could be expected to know 
nothing. 

Very soon afterwards, my Lord and Lady went to London 


35 


Henry Esmond 

with Mr Holt, leaving, however, the page behind them. The 
little man had the great house of Castlewood to himself ; or 
between him and the housekeeper, Mrs Worksop, an old lady 
who was a kinswoman of the family in some distant way, and 
a Protestant, but a staunch Tory and king’s-man, as all the 
Esmonds were. He used to go to school to Dr Tusher when 
he was at home, though the Doctor was much occupied too. 
There was a great stir and commotion everywhere, even in the 
little quiet village of Castlewood, whither a party of people 
came from the town, who would have broken Castlewood 
Chapel windows, but the village people turned out, and 
even old Sievewright, the republican blacksmith, along with 
them : for my Lady, though she was a Papist, and had many 
odd ways, was kind to the tenantry, and there was always a 
plenty of beef, and blankets, and medicine for the poor at 
Castlewood Hall. 

A kingdom was changing hands whilst my Lord and Lady 
were away. King James was flying, the Dutchmen were 
coming ; awful stories about them and the Prince of Orange 
used old Mrs Worksop to tell to the idle little page. 

He liked the solitude of the great house very well ; he had 
all the play-books to read, and no Father Holt to whip him, 
and a hundred childish pursuits and pastimes, without doors 
and within, which made this time very pleasant. 


Chapter V 

My Superiors are Engaged in Plots for the Restoration of 
King James the Second 

Not having been able to sleep, for thinking of some lines for 
eels which he had placed the night before, the lad was lying 
in his little bed, waiting for the hour when the gate would be 
open, and he and his comrade, John Lockwood, the porter’s 
son, might go to the pond and see what fortune had brought 
them. At daybreak, John was to awaken him, but his own 
eagerness for the sport had served as a reveillez long since — 
so long, that it seemed to him as if the day never would come. 


36 The History of 

It might have been four o’clock when he heard the door of 
the opposite chamber, the Chaplain’s room, open, and the voice 
of a man coughing in the passage. Harry jumped up, thinking 
for certain it was a robber, or hoping perhaps for a ghost, and, 
flinging open his own door, saw before him the Chaplain’s door 
open, and a light inside, and a figure standing in the doorway, 
in the midst of a great smoke which issued from the room. 

“ Who’s there?” cried out the boy, who was of a good spirit. 

“ Silentium /” whispered the other ; ’tis I, my boy ! ” and, 
holding his hand out, Harry had no difficulty in recognising 
his master and friend. Father Holt. A curtain was over the 
window of the Chaplain’s room that looked to the court, and 
Harry saw that the smoke came from a great flame of papers 
which were burning in a brazier when he entered the Chap- 
lain’s room. After giving a hasty greeting and blessing to the 
lad, who was charmed to see his tutor, the Father continued 
the burning of his papers, drawing them from a cupboard 
over the mantelpiece wall, which Harry had never seen before. 

Father Holt laughed, seeing the lad’s attention fixed at once 
on this hole. “ That is right, Harry,” he said ; “ faithful 
little famuli see all and say nothing. You are faithful, I know.” 

“ I know I would go to the stake for you,” said Harry, 
don’t want your head,” said the Father, patting it kindly; 
‘‘ all you have to do is to hold your tongue. Let us burn 
these papers, and say nothing to anybody. Should you like to 
read them ? ” 

Harry Esmond blushed, and held down his head; he had 
looked as the fact was, and without thinking, at the paper 
before him ; and though he had seen it, could not understand 
a word of it, the letters being quite clear enough, but quite 
without meaning. They burned the papers, beating down the 
ashes in a brazier, so that scarce any traces of them remained. 

Harry had been accustomed to see Father Holt in more 
dresses than one ; it not being safe, or worth the danger, for 
Popish ecclesiastics to wear their proper dress ; and he was, in 
consequence, in no wise astonished that the priest should now 
appear before him in a riding dress, with large buff leather 
boots, and a feather to his hat, plain, but such as gentlemen 
wore. 


37 


Henry Esmond 

“ You know the secret of the cupboard,” said he, laughing, 
‘‘and must be prepared for other mysteries; ” and he opened 
— but not a secret cupboard this time — only a wardrobe, which 
he usually kept locked, and from which he now took out two 
or three dresses and perruques of different colours, and a 
couple of swords of a pretty make (Father Holt was an expert 
practitioner with the small-sword, and every day, whilst he was 
at home, he and his pupil practised this exercise, in which the 
lad became a very great proficient) a military coat and cloak, 
and a farmer’s smock, and placed them in the large hole over 
the mantelpiece from which the papers had been taken. 

“ If they miss the cupboard,” he said, “ they will not find 
these ; if they find them, they’ll tell no tales, except that 
Father Holt wore more suits of clothes than one. All Jesuits 
do. You know what deceivers we are, Harry.” 

Harry was alarmed at the notion that his friend was about 
to leave him ; but “ No,” the priest said, “ I may very likely 
come back with my Lord in a few days. We are to be 
tolerated ; we are not to be persecuted. But they may take a 
fancy to pay a visit at Castlewood ere our return ; and, as 
gentlemen of my cloth are suspected, they might choose to 
examine my papers, which concern nobody — at least not them.” 
And to this day, whether the papers in cipher related to 
politics, or to the affairs of that mysterious society whereof 
Father Holt was a member, his pupil, Harry Esmond, remains 
in entire ignorance. 

The rest of his goods, his small wardrobe, &c.. Holt left 
untouched on his shelves and in his cupboard, taking down — 
with a laugh, however — and flinging into the brazier, where 
he only half burned them, some theological treatises which he 
had been writing against the English divines. “ And now,” 
said he, “ Henry, my son, you may testify, with a safe con- 
science, that you saw me burning Latin sermons the last time 
I was here before I went away to London ; and it will be 
daybreak directly, and I must be away before Lockwood is 
stirring.” 

“Will not Lockwood let you out, sir?” Esmond asked. 
Holt laughed ; he was never more gay or good-humoured 
than when in the midst of action or danger. 


38 


The History of 

Lockwood knows nothing of my being here, mind you, 
he said ; “ nor would you, you little wretch ! had you slept 
better. You must forget that I have been here ; and now 
farewell. Close the door, and go to your own room, and 
don’t come out till — stay, why should you not know one secret 
more ? I know you will never betray me.” 

In the Chaplain’s room were two windows : the one looking 
into the court facing westwards to the fountain *, the other, a 
small casement strongly barred, and looking on to the green 
in front of the Hall. This window was too high to reach 
from the ground ; but, mounting on a buffet which stood 
beneath it, Father Holt showed me how, by pressing on the 
base of the window, the whole framework of lead, glass, and 
iron staunchions descended into a cavity worked below, from 
which it could be drawn and restored to its usual place from 
without ; a broken pane being purposely open to admit the 
hand which was to work upon the spring of the machine. 

“When I am gone,” Father Holt said, “you may push 
away the buffet, so that no one may fancy that an exit has 
been made that way 5 lock the door ; place the key — where 
shall we put the key ? — under ‘ Chrysostom ’ on the book- 
shelf ; and if any ask for it, say I keep it there, and told you 
where to find it, if you had need to go to my room. The 
descent is easy down the wall into the ditch ; and so once 
more farewell, until I see thee again, my dear son.” And 
with this the intrepid Father mounted the buffet with great 
agility and briskness, stepped across the window, lifting up 
the bars and framework again from the other side, and only 
leaving room for Harry Esmond to stand on tiptoe and kiss 
his hand before the casement closed, the bars fixing as firm as 
ever, seemingly, in the stone arch overhead. When Father 
Holt next arrived at Castlewood, it was by the public gate on 
horseback ; and he never so much as alluded to the existence 
of the private issue to Harry, except when he had need of 
a private messenger from within, for which end, no doubt, he 
had instructed his young pupil in the means of quitting the Hall. 

Esmond, young as he was, would have died sooner than 
betray his friend and master, as Mr Holt well knew ; for he 
had tried the boy more than once, putting temptations in his 


39 


Henry Esmond 

way, to see whether he would yield to them and confess 
afterwards, or whether he would resist them, as he did some- 
times, or whether he would lie, which he never did. Holt 
instructing the boy on this point, however, that if to keep 
silence is not to lie, as it certainly is not, yet silence is, after 
all, equivalent to a negation — and therefore a downright No, 
in the interest of justice or your friend, and in reply to a 
question that may be prejudicial to either, is not criminal, but, 
on the contrary, praiseworthy ; and as lawful a way as the 
other of eluding a wrongful demand. For instance (says he), 
suppose a good citizen, who has seen His Majesty take refuge 
there, had been asked, “ Is King Charles up that oak-tree ? ” 
his duty would have been not to say. Yes — so that the Crom- 
wellians should seize the King and murder him like his father 
— but No ; His Majesty being private in the tree, and there- 
fore not to be seen there by loyal eyes : all which instruction, 
in religion and morals, as well as in the rudiments of the 
tongues and sciences, the boy took eagerly and with gratitude 
from his tutor. When, then. Holt was gone, and told 
Harry not to see him, it was as if he had never been. And 
he had this answer pat when he came to be questioned a few 
days after. 

The Prince of Orange was then at Salisbury, as young 
Esmond learned from seeing Doctor Tusher in his best cassock 
(though the roads were muddy, and he never was known to 
wear his silk, only his stuff one, a-horseback), with a great 
orange cockade in his broad-leafed hat, and Nahum, his 
clerk, ornamented with a like decoration. The Doctor was 
walking up and down in front of his parsonage, when little 
Esmond saw him, and heard him say he was going to pay 
his duty to his Highness the Prince, as he mounted his 
pad and rode away with Nahum behind. The village people 
had orange cockades too, and his friend the blacksmith’s 
laughing daughter pinned one into Harry’s old hat, which 
he tore out indignantly when they bade him to cry “ God 
save the Prince of Orange and the Protestant religion ! ” but 
the people only laughed, for they liked the boy in the village, 
where his solitary condition moved the general pity, and where 
he found friendly welcomes and faces in many houses. Father 


40 


The History of 

Holt had many friends there too, for he not only would fight 
the blacksmith at theology, never losing his temper, but laugh- 
ing the whole time in his pleasant way ; but he cured him of 
an ague with quinquina, and was always ready with a kind 
word for any man that asked it, so that they said in the village 
’twas a pity the two were Papists. 

The Director and the Vicar of Castlewood agreed very well ; 
indeed, the former was a perfectly-bred gentleman, and it was 
the latter’s business to agree with everybody. Doctor Tusher 
and the lady’s-maid, his spouse, had a boy who was about the 
age of little Esmond ; and there was such a friendship between 
the lads, as propinquity and tolerable kindness and good-humour 
on either side would be pretty sure to occasion. Tom Tusher 
was sent off early, however, to a school in London, whither his 
father took him and a volume of sermons, in the first year of 
the reign of King James ; and Tom returned but once a year 
afterwards to Castlewood for many years of his scholastic and 
collegiate life. Thus there was less danger to Tom of a per- 
version of his faith by the Director, who scarce ever saw him, 
than there was to Harry, who constantly was in the Vicar’s 
company ; but as long as Harry’s religion was His Majesty’s, 
and my Lord’s, and my Lady’s, the Doctor said gravely, it 
should not be for him to disturb or disquiet him : it was far 
from him to say that His Majesty’s Church was not a branch 
of the Catholic Church ; upon which Father Holt used, accord- 
ing to his custom, to laugh, and say that the Holy Church 
throughout all the world, and the noble Army of Martyrs, 
were very much obliged to the Doctor. 

It was while Doctor Tusher was away at Salisbury that there 
came a troop of dragoons with orange scarfs, and quartered in 
Castlewood, and some of them came up to the Hall, where they 
took possession, robbing nothing however beyond the hen- 
house and the beer-cellar ; and only insisting upon going 
through the house and looking for papers. The first room 
they asked to look at was Father Holt’s room, of which 
Harry Esmond brought the key, and they opened the drawers 

and the cupboards, and tossed over the papers and clothes 

but found nothing except his books and clothes, and the vest- 
ments in a box by themselves, with which the dragoons made 


41 


Henry Esmond 

merry, to Harry Esmond’s horror. And to the questions which 
the gentleman put to Harry, he replied that Father Holt was a 
very kind man to him, and a very learned man, and Harry sup- 
posed would tell him none of his secrets, if he had any. Fie 
was about eleven years old at this time, and looked as innocent 
as boys of his age. 

The family were away more than six months, and when they 
returned they were in the deepest state of dejection, for King 
James had been banished, the Prince of Orange was on the 
throne, and the direst persecutions of those of the Catholic 
faith were apprehended by my Lady, who said she did not 
believe that ;there was a word of truth in the promises of 
toleration that Dutch monster made, or in a single word the 
perjured wretch said. My Lord and Lady were in a manner 
prisoners in their own house ; so her Ladyship gave the little 
page to know, who was by this time growing of an age to 
understand what was passing about him, and something of the 
characters of the people he lived with. 

‘‘We are prisoners,” says she; “in everything but chains 
we are prisoners. Let them come, let them consign me to 
dungeons, or strike off my head from this poor little throat ” 
(and she clasped it in her long fingers). “The blood of the 
Esmonds will always flow freely for their kings. We are not 
like the Churchills — the Judases, who kiss their master and 
betray him. We know how to suffer, how even to forgive in 
the royal cause ” (no doubt it was that fatal business of losing 
the place of Groom of the Posset to which her Ladyship 
alluded, as she did half-a-dozen times in the day). “ Let the 
tyrant of Orange bring his rack and his odious Dutch tortures 
— the beast ! the wretch ! I spit upon him and defy him. 
Cheerfully will I lay this head upon the block ; cheerfully 
will I accompany my Lord to the scaffold ! we will cry ‘ God 
save King James ! ’ with our dying breath, and smile in the 
face of the executioner.” And she told her page, a hundred 
times at least, of the particulars of the last interview which 
she had with His Majesty. 

“ I flung myself before my liege’s feet,” she said, “ at Salis- 
bury. I devoted myself — my husband — my house, to his cause. 
Perhaps he remembered old times, when Isabella Esmond was 


42 


The History of 

young and fair ; perhaps he recalled the day when ’twas not I 
that knelt — at least he spoke to me with a voice that reminded 
me of days gone by. ‘ Egad ! ’ said His Majesty, ‘ you should 
go to the Prince of Orange, if you want anything.’ ‘ No, sire,’ 

I replied, ‘ I would not kneel to a Usurper ; the Esmond that 
would have served your Majesty will never be groom to a 
traitor’s posset.’ The royal exile smiled, even in the midst of 
his misfortune ; he deigned to raise me with words of consola- 
tion. The Viscount, my husband, himself, could not be angry 
at the august salute with which he honoured me ! ” 

The public misfortune had the effect of making my Lord 
and his Lady better friends than they ever had been since their 
courtship. My Lord Viscount had shown both loyalty and 
spirit, when these were rare qualities in the dispirited party 
about the King ; and the praise he got elevated him not a 
little in his wife’s good opinion, and perhaps in his own. He 
wakened up from the listless and supine life which he had 
been leading ; was always riding to and fro in consultation 
with this friend or that of the King’s ; the page of course 
knowing little of his doings, but remarking only his greater 
cheerfulness and altered demeanour. 

Father Holt came to the Hall constantly, but officiated no 
longer openly as Chaplain ; he was always fetching and carry- 
ing : strangers, military and ecclesiastic (Harry knew the latter, 
though they came in all sorts of disguises), were continually 
arriving and departing. My Lord made long absences and 
sudden reappearances, using sometimes the means of exit which 
Father Holt had employed, though how often the little window 
in the Chaplain’s room let in or let out my Lord and his friends, 
Harry could not tell. He stoutly kept his promise to the 
Father of not prying, and if at midnight from his little room 
he heard noises of persons stirring in the next chamber, he 
turned round to the wall, and hid his curiosity under his 
pillow until it fell asleep. Of course he could not help 
remarking that the priest’s journeys were constant, and under- 
standing by a hundred signs that some active though secret 
business employed him : what this was may pretty well be 
guessed by what soon happened to my Lord. 

No garrison or watch was put into Castlewood when my 


43 


Henry Esmond 

Lord came back, but a guard was in the village ; and one or 
other of them was always on the Green keeping a look-out on 
our great gate, and those who went out and in. Lockwood 
said that at night especially every person who came in or went 
out was watched by the outlying sentries. ’Twas lucky that 
we had a gate which their Worships knew nothing about. My 
Lord and Father Holt must have made constant journeys at 
night : once or twice little Harry acted as their messenger and 
discreet aide-de-camp. He remembers he was bidden to go 
into the village with his fishing-rod, enter certain houses, ask 
for a drink of water, and tell the good man, There would 
be a horse-market at Newbury next Thursday,” and so carry 
the same message on to the next house on his list. 

He did not know what the message meant at the time, nor 
what was happening : which may as well, however, for clear- 
ness’ sake, be explained here. The Prince of Orange being 
gone to Ireland, where the King was ready to meet him with 
a great army, it was determined that a great rising of His 
Majesty’s party should take place in this country ; and my 
Lord was to head the force in our county. Of late he had 
taken a greater lead in affairs than before, having the indefati- 
gable Mr Holt at his elbow, and my Lady Viscountess strongly 
urging him on ; and my Lord Sark being in the Tower a 
prisoner, and Sir Wilmot Crawley, of Queen’s Crawley, having 
gone over to the Prince of Orange’s side — my Lord became 
the most considerable person in our part of the county for the 
affairs of the King. 

It was arranged that the regiment of Scots Greys and 
Dragoons, then quartered at Newbury, should declare for the 
King on a certain day, when likewise the gentry affected to 
His Majesty’s cause were to come in with their tenants and 
adherents to Newbury, march upon the Dutch troops at Read- 
ing under Ginckel : and, these overthrown, and their indo- 
mitable little master away in Ireland, ’twas thought that our 
side might move on London itself, and a confident victory was 
predicted for the King. 

As these great matters were in agitation, my Lord lost his 
listless manner and seemed to gain health ; my Lady did not 
scold him, Mr Holt came to and fro, busy always ; and little 


44 


The History of 

Harry longed to have been a few inches taller, that he might 
draw a sword in this good cause. 

One day, it must have been about the month of June, 1690, 
my Lord, in a great horseman’s coat, under which Harry could 
see the shining of a steel breastplate he had on, called little 
Harry to him, put the hair off the child’s forehead, and kissed 
him, and bade God bless him in such an affectionate way as he 
never had used before. Father Holt blessed him too, and 
then they took leave of my Lady Viscountess, who came from 
her apartment with a pocket-handkerchief to her eyes, and her 
gentlewoman and Mrs Tusher supporting her. “ You are 
going to — to ride,” says she. “ Oh, that I might come too ! 
— but in my situation I am forbidden horse exercise.” 

“ Kiss my Lady Marchioness’s hand,” says Mr Holt. 

“ My Lord, God speed you ! ” she said, stepping up and 
embracing my Lord in a grand manner. “ Mr Holt, I ask 
your blessing ; ” and she knelt down for that, whilst Mrs 
Tusher tossed her head up. 

Mr Holt gave the same benediction to the little page, who 
went down and held my Lord’s stirrups for him to mount ; 
there were two servants waiting there too — and they rode 
out of Castlewood gate. 

As they crossed the bridge, Harry could see an officer in 
scarlet ride up touching his hat, and address my Lord. 

The party stopped, and came to some parley or discussion, 
which presently ended, my Lord putting his horse into a canter 
after taking off his hat and making a bow to the officer, who 
rode alongside him step for step : the trooper accompanying 
him falling back, and riding with my Lord’s two men. They 
cantered over the Green, and behind the elms (my Lord waving 
his hand, Harry thought), and so they disappeared. That 
evening we had a great panic, the cow-boy coming at milking- 
time riding one of our horses, which he had found grazing at 
the outer park-wall. 

All night my Lady Viscountess was in a very quiet and sub- 
dued mood. She scarce found fault with anybody ; she played 
at cards for six hours ; little page Esmond went to sleep. He 
prayed for my Lord and the good cause before closing his eyes. 

It was quite in the grey of the morning when the porter’s 


45 


Henry Esmond 

bell rang, and old Lockwood, waking up, let in one of my 
Lord’s servants, who had gone with him in the morning, and 
who returned with a melancholy story. The officer who rode 
up to my Lord had, it appeared, said to him, that it was his duty 
to inform his Lordship that he was not under arrest, but under 
surveillance, and to request him not to ride abroad that day. 

My Lord replied that riding was good for his health, that if 
the Captain chose to accompany him he was welcome ; and it 
was then that he made a bow, and they cantered away together. 

When he came on to Wansey Down, my Lord all of a sudden 
pulled up, and the party came to a halt at the cross-way. 

“ Sir,” says he to the officer, ‘‘ we are four to two : will you 
be so kind as to take that road, and leave me to go mine ? ” 

“ Your road is mine, my Lord,” says the officer. 

“ Then ” says my Lord ; but he had no time to say more, 

for the officer, drawing a pistol, snapped it at his Lordship ; 
as at the same moment. Father Holt, drawing a pistol, shot 
the officer through the head. It was done, and the man dead 
in an instant of time. The orderly, gazing at the officer, 
look scared for a moment, and galloped away for his life. 

“ Fire ! fire ! ” cries out Father Holt, sending another shot 
after the trooper, but the two servants were too much sur- 
prised to use their pieces, and my Lord calling to them to 
hold their hands, the fellow got away. 

“ Mr Holt, qui pensait ci tout^'^ says Blaise, “ gets off his horse, 
examines the pockets of the dead officer for papers, gives his 
money to us two, and says, ‘ The wine is drawn, M. le Marquis,’ 
— why did he say Marquis to M. le Vicomte? ‘we must drink it.’ 

“ The poor gentleman’s horse was a better one than that I 
rode,” Blaise continues : “ Mr Holt bids me get on him, and 
so I gave a cut to Whitefoot, and she trotted home. We rode 
on towards Newbury ; we heard firing towards midday : at 
two o’clock a horseman comes up to us as we were giving our 
cattle water at an inn — and says, ‘ All is done ! The Ecossais 
declared an hour too soon — General Ginckel was down upon 
them.’ The whole thing was at an end.” 

“ And we’ve shot an officer on duty, and let his orderly 
escape,” says my Lord. 

“ Blaise,” says Mr Holt, writing two lines on his table-book. 


46 


The History of 

one for my Lady, and one for you, Master Harry ; ‘ you must 
go back to Castlewood, and deliver these,’ and behold me.” 

And he gave Harry the two papers. He read that to him- 
self, which only said, ‘‘ Burn the papers in the cupboard, burn 
this. You know nothing about anything.” Harry read this, 
ran upstairs to his mistress’s apartment, where her gentle- 
woman slept near to the door, made her bring a light and 
wake my Lady, into whose hands he gave the paper. She 
was a wonderful object to look at in her night attire, nor 
had Harry ever seen the like. 

As soon as she had the paper in her hand, Harry stepped 
back to the Chaplain’s room, opened the secret cupboard over 
the fireplace, burned all the papers in it, and, as he had seen 
the priest do before, took down one of his reverence’s manu- 
script sermons, and half-burnt that in the brazier. By the 
time the papers were quite destroyed it was daylight. Harry 
ran back to his mistress again. Her gentlewoman ushered 
him again into her Ladyship’s chamber ; she told him (from 
behind her nuptial curtains) to bid the coach be got ready, 
and that she would ride away anon. 

But the mysteries of her Ladyship’s toilet were as awfully 
long on this day as on any other, and long after the coach was 
ready, my lady was still attiring herself. And just as the 
Viscountess stepped forth from her room, ready for departure, 
young John Lockwood comes running up from the village 
with news that a lawyer, three officers, and twenty or four- 
and-twenty soldiers, were marching thence upon the house. 
John had but two minutes the start of them, and, ere he had 
well told his story, the troop rode into our courtyard. 


Chapter VI 

The Issue of the Plots — The Death of Thomas, third Viscount of 
Castlewood ; and the Imprisonment of his Viscountess 

At first my Lady was for dying like Mary Queen of Scots 
(to whom she fancied she bore a resemblance in beauty), and, 
stroking her scraggy neck, said, “ They will find Isabel of 


47 


Henry Esmond 

Castlewood is equal to her fate.” Her gentlewoman, Victoire, 
persuaded her that her prudent course was, as she could not 
fly, to receive the troops as though she suspected nothing, and 
that her chamber was the best place wherein to await them. 
So her black Japan casket, which Harry was to carry to the 
coach, was taken back to her Ladyship’s chamber, whither the 
maid and mistress retired. Victoire came out presently, bidding 
the page to say her Ladyship was ill, confined to her bed with 
the rheumatism. 

By this time the soldiers had reached Castlewood. Harry 
Esmond saw them from the window of the tapestry parlour ; 
a couple of sentinels were posted at the gate — a half-dozen 
more walked towards the stable ; and some others, preceded 
by their commander, and a man in black, a lawyer probably, 
were conducted by one of the servants to the stair leading up 
to the part of the house which my Lord and Lady inhabited. 

So the Captain, a handsome kind man, and the lawyer, came 
through the ante-room to the tapestry parlour, and where now 
was nobody but young Harry Esmond, the page. 

‘‘Tell your mistress, little man,” says the Captain kindly, 
“ that we must speak to her.” 

“ My mistress is ill a-bed,” said the page. 

“ What complaint has she ” asked the Captain. 

The boy said, “ The rheumatism.” 

“ Rheumatism ! that’s a sad complaint,” continues the good- 
natured Captain ; “ and the coach is in the yard to fetch the 
Doctor, I suppose ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” says the boy. 

“ And how long has her Ladyship been ill ?” 

“ I don’t know,” says the boy. 

“ When did my Lord go away ? ” 

“ Yesterday night.” 

“ With Father Holt .? ” 

“ With Mr Holt.” 

“ And which way did they travel ? ” asks the lawyer. 

“ They travelled without me,” says the page. 

“ We must see Lady Castlewood.” 

“ I have orders that nobody goes in to her Ladyship — she is 
sick,” says the page ; but at this moment Victoire came out. 


48 The History of 

‘‘ Hush ! ” says she ; and, as if not knowing that any one was 
near, ‘‘ What’s this noise ? ” says she. ‘‘ Is this gentleman 
the Doctor ? ” 

“ Stuff! we must see Lady Castlewood,” says the lawyer, 
pushing by. 

The curtains of her Ladyship’s room were down, and the 
chamber dark, and she was in bed with a nightcap on her head, 
and propped up by her pillows, looking none the less ghastly 
because of the red which was still on her cheeks, and which 
she could not afford to forego. 

Is that the Doctor ? ” she said. 

‘‘There is no use with this deception, madam,” Captain 
Westbury said (for so he was named). “ My duty is to arrest 
the person of Thomas, Viscount Castlewood, a nonjuring peer 
— of Robert Tusher, Vicar of Castlewood — and Henry Holt, 
known under various other names and designations, a Jesuit 
priest, who officiated as chaplain here in the late King’s time, 
and is now at the head of the conspiracy which was about to 
break out in this country against the authority of their Majesties 
King William and Queen Mary — and my orders are to search 
the house for such papers or traces of the conspiracy as may 
be found here. Your Ladyship will please to give me your 
keys, and it will be as well for yourself that you should help 
us, in every way, in our search.” 

“ You see, sir, that I have the rheumatism, and cannot move,” 
said the lady, looking uncommonly ghastly, as she sat up in 
her bed, where, however, she had had her cheeks painted, and 
a new cap put on, so that she might at least look her best 
when the officers came. 

“ I shall take leave to place a sentinel in the chamber, so 
that your Ladyship, in case you should wish to rise, may have 
an arm to lean on,” Captain Westbury said. “ Your woman 
will show me where I am to look ; ” and Madame Victoire, 
chattering in her half French and half English jargon, opened 
while the Captain examined one drawer after another ; but, as 
Harry Esmond thought, rather carelessly, with a smile on his 
face, as if he was only conducting the examination for form’s 
sake. 

Before one of the cupboards Victoire flung herself down, 


49 


Henry Esmond 

stretching out her arms, and, with a piercing shriek, cried, 
‘‘ Non, jamais, monsieur I’officier ! Jamais ! I will rather die 
than let you see this wardrobe.” 

But Captain Westbury would open it, still with a smile on 
his face, which, when the box was opened, turned into a fair 
burst of laughter. It contained — not papers regarding the 
conspiracy — but my Lady’s wigs, washes, and rouge-pots, and 
Victoire said men were monsters, as the Captain went on with 
his perquisition. He tapped the back to see whether or no 
it was hollow, and as he thrust his hands into the cupboard, 
my Lady from her bed called out, with a voice that did not 
sound like that of a very sick woman, ‘‘ Is it your commission 
to insult ladies as well as to arrest gentlemen. Captain ? ” 

These articles are only dangerous when worn by your 
Ladyship,” the Captain said, with a low bow, and a mock grin 
of politeness. I have found nothing which concerns the 
Government as yet — only the weapons with which beauty is 
authorised to kill,” says he, pointing to a wig with his sword- 
tip. “We must now proceed to search the rest of the 
house.” 

“ You are not going to leave that wretch in the room with 
me ^ ” cried my Lady, pointing to the soldier. 

“What can I do, madam Somebody you must have to 
smooth your pillow and bring your medicine — permit me ” 

“ Sir ! ” screamed out my Lady. 

“ Madam, if you are too ill to leave the bed,” the Captain 
then said, rather sternly, “ I must have in four of my men to 
lift you off in the sheet. I must examine this bed, in a word ; 
papers may be hidden in a bed as elsewhere ; we know that 
very well, and ” 

Here it was her Ladyship’s turn to shriek, for the Captain, 
with his fist shaking the pillows and bolsters, at last came to 
“ burn ” as they say in the play of forfeits, and wrenching away 
one of the pillows, said, “ Look ! did not I tell you so ? Here 
is a pillow stuffed with paper.” 

“ Some villain has betrayed us,” cried out my Lady, sitting 
up in the bed, showing herself full dressed under her night-rail. 

“ And now your Ladyship can move, I am sure; permit me 
to give you my hand to rise. You will have to travel for 


D 


50 


The History of 

some distance, as far as Hexton Castle, to-night. Will you 
have your coach ? Your woman shall attend you if you 
like — and the Japan box ! ” 

“ Sir ! you don’t strike a man when he is down,” said my 
Lady, with some dignity : “ can you not spare a woman ? ” 

“ Your Ladyship must please to rise, and let me search the 
bed,” said the Captain ; ‘‘ there is no more time to lose in 
bandying talk.” 

And, without more ado, the gaunt old woman got up. 
Harry Esmond recollected to the end of his life that figure 
with the brocade dress and the white night-rail, and the gold- 
clocked red stockings, and white red-heeled shoes, sitting up 
in the bed, and stepping down from it. The trunks were 
ready packed for departure in her ante-room, and the horses 
ready harnessed in the stable : about all which the Captain 
seemed to know, by information got from some quarter or 
other ; and whence Esmond could make a pretty shrewd guess in 
after-times, when Dr Tusher complained that King William’s 
government had basely treated him for services done in that cause. 

And here he may relate, though he was then too young to 
know all that was happening, what the papers contained, of 
which Captain Westbury had made a seizure, and which papers 
had been transferred from the Japan box to the bed when the 
officers arrived. 

There was a list of gentlemen of the county in Father Holt’s 
handwriting — Mr Freeman’s (King James’s) friends — a similar 
paper being found among those of Sir John Fenwick and Mr 
Coplestone, who suffered death for this conspiracy. 

There was a patent conferring the title of Marquis of 
Esmond on my Lord Castlewood and the heirs-male of his 
body; his appointment as Lord-Lieutenant of the County, 
and Major-General.* 

* To have this rank of Marquis restored in the family had always been my 
Lady Viscountess’s ambition ; and her old maiden aunt, Barbara Topham, the 
goldsmith’s daughter, dying about this time, and leaving all her property to 
Lady Castlewood, I have heard that her Ladyship sent almost the whole of the 
money to King James, a proceeding which so irritated my Lord Castlewood that 
he actually went to the parish church, and was only appeased by the Marquis’s 
title which his exiled Majesty sent to him in return for the ^15,000 his faithful 
subject lent him. 


51 


Henry Esmond 

There were various letters from the nobility and gentry, 
some ardent and some doubtful, in the King’s service ; and 
(very luckily for him) two letters concerning Colonel Francis 
Esmond : one from Father Holt, which said, “ I have been 
to see this Colonel at his house at Walcote, near to Wells, 
where he resides since the King’s departure, and pressed him 
very eagerly in Mr Freeman’s cause, showing him the great 
advantage he would have by trading with that merchant, 
offering him large premiums there as agreed between us. But 
he says no : he considers Mr Freeman the head of the firm, 
will never trade against him or embark with any otner trading 
company, but considers his duty was done when Mr Freeman 
left England. This Colonel seems to care more for his wife 
and his beagles than for affairs. He asked me much about 
young H. E., * that bastard,’ as he called him ; doubting my 
Lord’s intentions respecting him. I reassured him on this 
head, stating what I knew of the lad, and our intentions 
respecting him, but with regard to Freeman he was inflexible.” 

And another letter was from Colonel Esmond to his kins- 
man, to say that one Captain Holton had been with him offering 
him large bribes to join, you know who, and saying that the 
head of the house of Castlewood was deeply engaged in that 
quarter. But for his part he had broke his sword when the 
K. left the country ,^and would never again fight in that quarrel. 
The P. of O. was a man, at least, of a noble courage, and his 
duty, and, as he thought, every Englishman’s, was to keep the 
country quiet, and the French out of it j and, in fine, that he 
would have nothing to do with the scheme. 

Of the existence of these two letters and the contents of 
the pillow. Colonel Frank Esmond, who became Viscount 
Castlewood, told Henry Esmond afterwards, when the letters 
were shown to his Lordship, who congratulated himself, as 
he had good reason, that he had not joined in the scheme 
which proved so fatal to many concerned in it. But, naturally, 
the lad knew little about these circumstances when they hap- 
pened under his eyes : only being aware that his patron and 
his mistress were in some trouble, which had caused the flight 
of the one and the apprehension of the other by the officers of 
King William. 


52 


The History of 

The seizure of the papers efFected, the gentlemen did not 
pursue their further search through Castlewood House very 
rigorously. They examined Mr Holt’s room, being led thither 
by his pupil, who showed, as the Father had bidden him, the 
place where the key of his chamber lay, opened the door for 
the gentlemen, and conducted them into the room. 

When the gentlemen came to the half-burned papers in the 
brazier, they examined them eagerly enough, and their young 
guide was a little amused at their perplexity. 

“ What are these ? ” says one. 

‘‘ They’re written in a foreign language,” says the lawyer. 
“What are you laughing at, little whelp?” adds he, turning 
round as he saw the boy smile. 

“Mr Holt said they were sermons,” Harry said, “and 
bade me to burn them ; ” which indeed was true of those 
papers. 

“ Sermons indeed — it’s treason, I would lay a wager,” cries 
the lawyer. 

“ Egad ! it’s Greek to me,” says Captain Westbury. “ Can 
you read it, little boy ? ” 

“ Yes, sir, a little,” Harry said. 

“Then read, and read in English, sir, on your peril,” said 
the lawyer. And Harry began to translate : — 

“‘Hath not one of your own writers said, “The children 
of Adam are now labouring as much as he himself ever did, 
about the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, shaking 
the boughs thereof, and seeking the fruit, being for the most 
part unmindful of the tree of life.” O blind generation ! ’tis 
this tree of knowledge to which the serpent has led you ’ ” — 
and here the boy was obliged to stop, the rest of the page 
being charred by the fire: and asked of the lawyer, “Shall 
I go on, sir ? ” 

The lawyer said, “ This boy is deeper than he seems : who 
knows that he is not laughing at us ? ” 

“Let’s have in Dick the Scholar,” cried Captain Westbury, 

laughing: and he called to a trooper out of the window 

“ Ho, Dick ! come in here and construe.” 

A thick-set soldier, with a square good-humoured face, came 
in at the summons, saluting his officer. 


53 


Henry Esmond 

‘‘ Tell us what is this, Dick,” says the lawyer. 

‘‘ My name is Steele, sir,” says the soldier. “ I may be 
Dick for my friends, but I don’t name gentlemen of your cloth 
amongst them.” 

“ Well then, Steele.” 

“ Mr Steele, sir, if you please. When you address a gentle- 
man of His Majesty’s Horse Guards, be pleased not to be so 
familiar.” 

I didn’t know, sir,” said the lawyer. 

“ How should you ? I take it you are not accustomed to 
meet with gentlemen,” says the trooper. 

“ Hold thy prate, and read that bit of paper,” says Westbury. 

“’Tis Latin,” says Dick, glancing at it, and again saluting 
his officer, ‘‘and from a sermon of Mr Cudworth’s;” and 
he translated the words pretty much as Henry Esmond had 
rendered them. 

“ What a young scholar you are ! ” says the Captain to the 
boy. 

“Depend on’t, he knows more than he tells,” says the 
lawyer. “I think we will pack him off in the coach with 
old Jezebel.” 

“For construing a bit of Latin.?” said the Captain, very 
good-naturedly. 

“ I would as lief go there as anywhere,” Harry Esmond said 
simply, “ for there is nobody to care for me.” 

There must have been something touching in the child’s 
voice, or in this description of his solitude — for the Captain 
looked at him very good-naturedly, and the trooper called 
Steele put his hand kindly on the lad’s head, and said some 
words in the Latin tongue. 

“ What does he say ? ” says the lawyer. 

“ Faith, ask Dick yourself,” cried Captain Westbury. 

“ I said I was not ignorant of misfortune myself, and had 
learned to succour the miserable, and that’s not your trade, Mr 
Sheepskin,” said the trooper. 

“ You had better leave Dick the Scholar alone, Mr Corbet,” 
the Captain said. And Harry Esmond, always touched by a 
kind face and kind word, felt very grateful to this good-natured 
champion. 


54 


The History of 

The horses were by this time harnessed to the coach ; and 
the Countess and Victoire came down and were put into the 
vehicle. This woman, who quarrelled with Harry Esmond 
all day, was melted at parting with him, and called him “ dear 
angel,” and poor infant,” and a hundred other names. 

The Viscountess, giving him her lean hand to kiss, bade him 
always be faithful to the house of Esmond. If evil should 
happen to my Lord,” says she, “ his successor^ I trust, will be 
found, and give you protection. Situated as I am, they will 
not dare wreak their vengeance on me 7ionvP And she kissed 
a medal she wore with great fervour, and Henry Esmond 
knew not in the least what her meaning was ; but hath since 
learned that, old as she was, she was for ever expecting, by 
the good offices of saints and relics, to have an heir to the title 
of Esmond. 

Harry Esmond was too young to have been introduced into 
the secrets of politics in which his patrons were implicated ; 
for they put but few questions to the boy (who was little of 
stature, and looked much younger than his age), and such 
questions as they put he answered cautiously enough, and 
professing even more ignorance than he had, for which his 
examiners willingly enough gave him credit. He did not 
say a word about the window or the cupboard over the 
fireplace ; and these secrets quite escaped the eyes of the 
searchers. 

So then my Lady was consigned to her coach, and sent off 
to Hex ton, with her woman and the man of law to bear her 
company, a couple of troopers riding on either side of the 
coach. And Harry was left behind at the Hall, belonging as 
it were to nobody, and quite alone in the world. The captain 
and a guard of men remained in possession there ; and the 
soldiers, who were very good-natured and kind, ate my Lord’s 
mutton and drank his wine, and made themselves comfortable, 
as they well might do in such pleasant quarters. 

The captains had their dinner served in my Lord’s tapestry 
parlour, and poor little Harry thought his duty was to wait 
upon Captain Westbury’s chair, as his custom had been to 
serve his Lord when he sat there. 

After the departure of the Countess, Dick the Scholar took 


55 


Henry Esmond 

Harry Esmond under his special protection, and would examine 
him in his humanities, and talk to him both of French and 
Latin, in which tongues the lad found, and his new friend was 
willing enough to acknowledge, that he was even more pro- 
ficient than Scholar Dick. Hearing that he had learned them 
from a Jesuit, in the praise of whom and whose goodness Harry 
was never tired of speaking, Dick, rather to the boy’s surprise, 
who began to have an early shrewdness, like many children 
bred up alone, showed a great deal of theological science, and 
knowledge of the points at issue between the two Churches ; 
so that he and Harry would have hours of controversy together, 
in which the boy was certainly worsted by the arguments of 
this singular trooper. “I am no common soldier,” Dick would 
say, and indeed it was easy to see by his learning, breeding, 
and many accomplishments, that he was not. ‘‘I am of one 
of the most ancient families in the empire ; I have had my 
education at a famous school, and a famous university ; I 
learned my first rudiments of Latin near to Smithfield, in 
London, where the martyrs were roasted.” 

You hanged as many of ours,” interposed Harry j “ and, 
for the matter of persecution. Father Holt told me that a 
young gentleman of Edinburgh, eighteen years of age, student 
at the college there, was hanged for heresy only last year, 
though he recanted, and solemnly asked pardon for his 
errors.” 

“ Faith! there has been too much persecution on both sides: 
but ’twas you taught us.” 

“ Nay, ’twas the Pagans began it,” cried the lad, and began 
to instance a number of saints of the Church, from the Pro- 
tomartyr downwards — ‘‘ this one’s fire went out under him : 
that one’s oil cooled in the cauldron : at a third holy head the 
executioner chopped three times and it would not come off. 
Show us martyrs in your Church for whom such miracles have 
been done.” 

“ Nay,” says the trooper gravely, the miracles of the first 
three centuries belong to my Church as well as yours. Master 
Papist,” and then added, with something of a smile upon his 
countenance, and a queer look at Harry — ‘‘ And yet, my little 
catechiser, I have sometimes thought about those miracles, that 


56 The History of 

there was not much good in them, since the victim’s head 
always finished by coming off at the third or fourth chop, 
and the cauldron, if it did not boil one day, boiled the next. 
Howbeit, in our times, the Church has lost that questionable 
advantage of respites. There never was a shower to put out 
Ridley’s fire, nor an angel to turn the edge of Campion’s axe. 
The rack tore the limbs of Southwell the Jesuit and Sympson 
the Protestant alike. For faith, everywhere multitudes die 
willingly enough. I have read in Monsieur Rycaut’s ‘ History 
of the Turks,’ of thousands of Mahomet’s followers rushing 
upon death in battle as upon certain Paradise ; and in the 
Great Mogul’s dominions people fling themselves by hundreds 
under the cars of the idols annually, and the widows burn 
themselves on their husbands’ bodies, as ’tis well known. ’Tis 
not the dying for a faith that’s so hard. Master Harry — every 
man of every nation has done that — ’tis the living up to it 
that is difficult, as I know to my cost,” he added, with a sigh. 
“ And ah ! ” he added, “ my poor lad, I am not strong enough 
to convince thee by my life — though to die for my religion 
would give me the greatest of joys — but I had a dear friend 
in Magdalen College in Oxford : I wish Joe Addison were 
here to convince thee, as he quickly could — for I think he’s a 
match for the whole College of Jesuits ; and what’s more, in 
his life too. In that very sermon of Dr Cudworth’s which 
your priest was quoting from, and which suffered martyrdom 
in the brazier” — Dick added, with a smile, “I had a thought 
of wearing the black coat (but was ashamed of my life, you 
see, and took to this sorry red one) *, I have often thought 
of Joe Addison — Doctor Cudworth says, ‘a good conscience 
is the best looking-glass of heaven ’ — and there’s a serenity in 
my friend’s face which always reflects it — I wish you could see 
him, Harry.” 

“ Did he do you a great deal of good ? ” asked the lad 
simply. 

He might have done,” said the other — “at least he taught 
me to see and approve better things. ’Tis my own fault, 
deteriora sequiP 

“ You seem very good,” the boy said. 

“ I’m not what I seem, alas ! ” answered the trooper — and 


57 


Henry Esmond 

indeed, as it turned out, poor Dick told the truth — for that 
very night, at supper in the hall, where the gentlemen of the 
troop took their repasts, and^' passed most part of their days 
dicing and smoking of tobacco, and singing and cursing, over 
the Castlewood ale — Harry Esmond found Dick the Scholar in 
a woeful state of drunkenness. He hiccupped out a sermon ; 
and his laughing companions bade him sing a hymn, on which 
Dick, swearing he would run the scoundrel through the body 
who insulted his religion, made for his sword, which was 
hanging on the wall, and fell down flat on the floor under it, 
saying to Harry, who ran forward to help him, “ Ah, little 
Papist, I wish Joseph Addison was here ! ” 

Though the troopers of the King’s Life Guards were all 
gentlemen, yet the rest of the gentlemen seemed ignorant and 
vulgar boors to Harry Esmond, with the exception of this 
good-natured Corporal Steele the Scholar, and Captain West- 
bury and Lieutenant Trant, who were always kind to the lad. 
They remained for some weeks or months encamped in Castle- 
wood, and Harry learned from them, from time to time, how 
the lady at Hexton Castle was treated, and the particulars of 
her confinement there. ’Tis known that King William was 
disposed to deal very leniently with the gentry who remained 
faithful to the old King’s cause ; and no prince usurping a 
crown, as his enemies said he did (righteously taking it, as I 
think now), ever caused less blood to be shed. As for women 
conspirators, he kept spies on the least dangerous, and locked 
up the others. Lady Castlewood had the best rooms in Hexton 
Castle, and the gaoler’s garden to walk in ; and though she 
repeatedly desired to be led out to execution, like Mary Queen 
of Scots, there never was any thought of taking her painted 
old head off, or any desire to do aught but keep her person in 
security. 

And it appeared she found that some were friends in her 
misfortune, whom she had, in her prosperity, considered as 
her worst enemies. Colonel Francis Esmond, my Lord’s cousin 
and her Ladyship’s, who had married the Dean of Winchester’s 
daughter, and, since King James’s departure out of England, 
had lived not very far away from Hexton town, hearing of 
his kinswoman’s strait, and being friends with Colonel Brice, 


58 The History of 

commanding for King William in Hexton, and with the Church 
dignitaries there, came to visit her Ladyship in prison, offer- 
ing to his uncle’s daughter any friendly services which lay in 
his power. And he brought his lady and little daughter to 
see the prisoner, to the latter of whom, a child of great beauty 
and many winning ways, the old Viscountess took not a little 
liking, although between her Ladyship and the child’s mother 
there was little more love than formerly. There are some 
injuries which women never forgive one another : and Madam 
Francis Esmond, in marrying her cousin, had done one of those 
irretrievable wrongs to Lady Castlewood. But as she was now 
humiliated, and in misfortune. Madam Francis could allow a 
truce to her enmity, and could be kind for a while, at least, 
to her husband’s discarded mistress. So the little Beatrix, her 
daughter, was permitted often to go and visit the imprisoned 
Viscountess, who, in so far as the child and its father were 
concerned, got to abate in her anger towards that branch of 
the Castlewood family. And the letters of Colonel Esmond 
coming to light, as has been said, and his conduct being known 
to the King’s Council, the Colonel was put in a better position 
with the existing government than he had ever before been ; 
any suspicions regarding his loyalty were entirely done away ; 
and so he was enabled to be of more service to his kinswoman 
than he could otherwise have been. 

And now there befell an event by which this lady recovered 
her liberty, and the house of Castlewood got a new owner, 
and fatherless little Harry Esmond a new and most kind pro- 
tector and friend. Whatever that secret was which Harry 
was to hear from my Lord, the boy never heard it ; for that 
night when Father Holt arrived, and carried my Lord away 
with him, was the last on which Harry ever saw his patron. 
What happened to my Lord may be briefly told here. Having 
found the horses at the place where they were lying, my 
Lord and Father Holt rode together to Chatteris, where they 
had temporary refuge with one of the Father’s penitents in 
that city : but the pursuit being hot for them, and the reward 
for the apprehension of one or the other considerable, it was 
deemed advisable that they should separate; and the priest 
betook himself to other places of retreat known to him, whilst 


59 


Henry Esmond 

my Lord passed over from Bristol into Ireland, in which 
kingdom King James had a court and an army. My Lord 
was but a small addition to this ; bringing, indeed, only his 
sword and the few pieces in his pocket ; but the King received 
him with some kindness and distinction in spite of his poor 
plight, confirmed him in his new title of Marquis, gave him a 
regiment, and promised him further promotion. But title or 
promotion were not to benefit him now. My Lord was 
wounded at the fatal battle of the Boyne, flying from which 
field (long after his master had set him an example) he lay for 
a while concealed in the marshy country near to the town of 
Trim, and more from catarrh and fever caught in the bogs 
than from the steel of the enemy in the battle, sank and died. 
May the earth lie light upon Thomas of Castlewood ! He 
who writes this must speak in charity, though this lord did 
him and his two grievous wrongs : for one of these he would 
have made amends, perhaps, had life been spared him ; but 
the other lay beyond his power to repair, though ’tis to be 
hoped that a greater Power than a priest has absolved him of 
it. He got the comfort of this absolution, too, such as it was ! 
a priest of Trim writing a letter to my Lady to inform her of 
this calamity. 

But in those days letters were slow of travelling, and our 
priest’s took two months or more on its journey from Ireland to 
England ; where, when it did arrive, it did not find my Lady 
at her own house ; she was at the King’s house of Hexton 
Castle when the letter came to Castlewood, but it was opened 
for all that by the officer in command there. 

Harry Esmond well remembered the receipt of this letter, 
which Lockwood brought in as Captain Westbury and Lieu- 
tenant Trant were on the green playing at bowls, young 
Esmond looking on at the sport, or reading his book in the 
arbour. 

“ Here’s news for Frank Esmond,” says Captain Westbury. 
“Harry, did you ever see Colonel Esmond.?” And Captain 
Westbury looked very hard at the boy as he spoke. 

Harry said he had seen him but once when he was at 
Hexton, at the ball there. 

“ And did he say anything .? ” 


6o 


The History of 

‘‘ He said what I don’t care to repeat,” Harry answered. 
For he was now twelve years of age ; he knew what his birth 
was, and the disgrace of it ; and he felt no love towards the 
man who had most likely stained his mother’s honour and his 
own. 

“ Did you love my Lord Castlewood ? ” 

“I wait until I know my mother, sir, to say,” the boy 
answered, his eyes filling with tears. 

“ Something has happened to Lord Castlewood,” Captain 
Westbury said, in a very grave tone — “ something which must 
happen to us all. He is dead of a wound received at the 
Boyne, fighting for King James.” 

“ I am glad my Lord fought for the right cause,” the boy 
said. 

It was better to meet death on the field like a man, than 
face it on Tower Hill, as some of them may,” continued Mr 
Westbury. ‘‘ I hope he has made some testament, or provided 
for thee somehow. This letter says he recommends unicum 
fiitum suum dilectissimum to his Lady. I hope he has left you 
more than that.” 

Harry did not know, he said. He was in the hands of 
Heaven and Fate ; but more lonely now, as it seemed to him, 
than he had been all the rest of his life ; and that night, as he 
lay in his little room, which he still occupied, the boy thought 
with many a pang of shame and grief of his strange and solitary 
condition ; — how he had a father and no father ; a nameless 
mother that had been brought to ruin, perhaps, by that very 
father whom Harry could only acknowledge in secret and with 
a blush, and whom he could neither love nor revere. And he 
sickened to think how Father Holt, a stranger, and two or 
three soldiers, his acquaintances of the last six weeks, were 
the only friends he had in the great wide world, where he 
was now quite alone. The soul of the boy was full of love, 
and he longed, as he lay in the darkness there, for some one 
upon whom he could bestow it. He remembers, and must to 
his dying day, the thoughts and tears of that long night, the 
hours tolling through it. Who was he, and what ? Why 
here rather than elsewhere ? I have a mind, he thought, to 
go to that priest at Trim, and find out what my father said to 


6i 


Henry Esmond 

him on his death-bed confession. Is there any child in'*the 
whole world so unprotected as I am ? Shall I get up and 
quit this place, and run to Ireland ? With these thoughts 
and tears the lad passed that night away until he wept himself 
to sleep. 

The next day, the gentlemen of the guard, who had heard 
what had befallen him, were more than usually kind to the 
child, especially his friend Scholar Dick, who told him about 
his own father’s death, which had happened when Dick was a 
child at Dublin, not quite five years of age. “ That was the 
first sensation of grief,” Dick said, “ I ever knew. I remember 
I went into the room where his body lay, and my mother sat 
weeping beside it. I had my battledore in my hand, and fell 
a-beating the coffin, and calling papa; on which my mother 
caught me in her arms, and told me in a flood of tears papa 
could not hear me, and would play with me no more, for they 
were going to put him under ground, whence he could never 
come to us again. And this,” said Dick kindly, “ has made 
me pity all children ever since ; and caused me to love thee, 
my poor fatherless, motherless lad. And if ever thou wantest 
a friend, thou shalt have one in Richard Steele.” 

Harry Esmond thanked him, and was grateful. But what 
could Corporal Steele do for him ? take him to ride a spare 
horse, and be servant to the troop ? Though there might be 
a bar in Harry Esmond’s shield, it was a noble one. The 
counsel of the two friends was, that little Harry should stay 
where he was, and abide his fortune ; so Esmond stayed on at 
Castlewood, awaiting with no small anxiety the fate, whatever 
it was, which was over him. 

Chapter VII 

I am left at Castlewood an Orphan, and find most kind 
Protectors there 

During the stay of the soldiers in Castlewood, honest Dick 
the Scholar was the constant companion of the lonely little 
orphan lad Harry Esmond : and they read together, and they 


62 


The History of 

played bowls together, and when the other troopers or their 
officers, who were free-spoken over their cups (as was the way 
of that day, when neither men nor women were over-nice), 
talked unbecomingly of their amours and gallantries before the 
child, Dick, who very likely was setting the whole company 
laughing, would stop their jokes with a maxima dehetur pueris 
reverentia^ and once offered to lug out against another trooper 
called Hulking Tom, who wanted to ask Harry Esmond a 
ribald question. 

Also Dick, seeing that the child had, as he said, a sensibility 
above his years, and a great and praiseworthy discretion, con- 
fided to Harry his love for a vintner’s daughter, near to the 
Tollyard, Westminster ; whom Dick addressed as Saccharissa 
in many verses of his composition, and without whom he said 
it would be impossible that he could continue to live. He 
vowed this a thousand times in a day, though Harry smiled 
to see the love-lorn swain had his health and appetite as well 
as the most heart-whole trooper in the regiment ; and he 
swore Harry to secrecy too, which vow the lad religiously 
kept, until he found that officers and privates were all taken 
into Dick’s confidence, and had the benefit of his verses. And 
it must be owned likewise that, while Dick was sighing after 
Saccharissa in London, he had consolations in the country \ for 
there came a wench out of Castlewood village who had washed 
his linen, and who cried sadly when she heard he was gone : 
and without paying her bill too, which Harry Esmond took 
upon himself to discharge by giving the girl a silver pocket- 
piece, which Scholar Dick had presented to him, when, with 
many embraces and prayers for his prosperity, Dick parted 
from him, the garrison of Castlewood being ordered away. 
Dick the Scholar said he would never forget his young friend, 
nor indeed did he ; and Harry was sorry when the kind soldiers 
vacated Castlewood, looking forward with no small anxiety 
(for care and solitude had made him thoughtful beyond his 
years) to his fate when the new lord and lady of the house 
came to live there. He had lived to be past twelve years old 
now; and had never had a friend, save this wild trooper 
perhaps, and Father Holt ; and had a fond and affectionate 
heart, tender to weakness, that would fain attach itself to 


Henry Esmond 63 

somebody, and did not seem at rest until it had found a friend 
who would take charge of it. 

The instinct which led Henry Esmond to admire and love the 
gracious person, the fair apparition of whose beauty and kind- 
ness had so moved him when he first beheld her, became soon 
a devoted affection and passion of gratitude, which entirely 
filled his young heart, that as yet, except in the case of dear 
Father Holt, had had very little kindness for which to be 
thankful. 0 Dea cert'e^ thought he, remembering the lines of 
the jSlneis which Mr Holt had taught him. There seemed, as 
the boy thought, in every look or gesture of this fair creature, 
an angelical softness and bright pity — in motion or repose she 
seemed gracious alike ; the tone of her voice, though she 
uttered words ever so trivial, gave him a pleasure that amounted 
almost to anguish. It cannot be called love, that a lad of 
twelve years of age, little more than a menial, felt for an 
exalted lady, his mistress : but it was worship. To catch her 
glance, to divine her errand and run on it before she had 
spoken it j to watch, follow, adore her ; became the business 
of his life. Meanwhile, as is the way often, his idol had idols 
of her own, and never thought of or suspected the admiration 
of her little pigmy adorer. 

My Lady had on her side her three idols : first and fore- 
most, Jove and supreme ruler, was her lord, Harry’s patron, 
the good Viscount of Castlewood. All wishes of his were 
laws with her. If he had a headache, she was ill. If he 
frowned, she trembled. If he joked, she smiled and was 
charmed. If he went a-hunting, she was always at the 
window to see him ride away, her little son crowing on 
her arm, or . on the watch till his return. She made dishes 
for his dinner ; spiced his wine for him : made the toast 
for his tankard at breakfast : hushed the house when he slept 
in his chair, and watched for a look when he woke. If my 
Lord was not a little proud of his beauty, my Lady adored 
it. She clung to his arm as he paced the terrace, her two fair 
little hands clasped round his great one ; her eyes were never 
tired of looking in his face and wondering at its perfection. 
Her little son was his son, and had his father’s look and curly 
brown hair. Her daughter Beatrix was his daughter, and had 


64 The History of 

his eyes — were there ever such beautiful eyes in the world ? 
All the house was arranged so as to bring him ease and give 
him pleasure. She liked the small gentry round about to 
come and pay him court, never caring for admiration for her- 
self; those who wanted to be well with the lady must admire 
him. Not regarding her dress, she would wear a gown to 
rags, because he had once liked it ; and, if he brought her a 
brooch or a ribbon, would prefer it to all the most costly 
articles of her wardrobe. 

My Lord went to London every year for six weeks, and the 
family being too poor to appear at Court with any figure, he 
went alone. It was not until he was out of sight that her face 
showed any sorrow : and what a joy when he came back ! 
What preparation before his return ! The fond creature had 
his arm-chair at the chimney-side — delighting to put the 
children in it, and look at them there. Nobody took his place 
at the table ; but his silver tankard stood there as when my 
Lord was present. 

A pretty sight it was to see, during my Lord’s absence, or 
on those many mornings when sleep or headache kept him 
a-bed, this fair young lady of Castlewood, her little daughter 
at her knee, and her domestics gathered round her, reading 
the Morning Prayer of the English Church. Esmond long 
remembered how she looked and spoke, kneeling reverently 
before the sacred book, the sun shining upon her golden hair 
until it made a halo round about her. A dozen of the servants 
of the house kneeled in a line opposite their mistress. For a 
while Harry Esmond kept apart from these mysteries, but 
Doctor Tusher showing him that the prayers read were those 
of the Church of all ages, and the boy’s own inclination prompt- 
ing him to be always as near as he might to his mistress, and 
to think all things she did right, from listening to the prayers in 
the ante-chamber, he came presently to kneel down with the 
rest of the household in the parlour ; and before a couple of 
years my Lady had made a thorough convert. Indeed the boy 
loved his catechiser so much that he would have subscribed to 
anything she bade him, and was never tired of listening to her 
fond discourse and simple comments upon the book, which she 
read to him in a voice of which it was difficult to resist the 


Henry Esmond 65 

sweet persuasion and tender appealing kindness. This friendly 
controversy, and the intimacy which it occasioned, bound the 
lad more fondly than ever to his mistress. The happiest 
period of all his life was this ; and the young mother, with her 
daughter and son, and the orphan lad whom she protected, 
read and worked and played, and were children together. If 
the lady looked forward — as what fond woman does not ? — to- 
wards the future, she had no plans from which Harry Esmond 
was left out ; and a thousand and a thousand times, in his 
passionate and impetuous way, he vowed that no power should 
separate him from his mistress; and only asked for some 
chance to happen by which he might show his fidelity to her. 
Now at the close of his life, as he sits and recalls in tran- 
quillity the happy and busy scenes of it, he can think, not 
ungratefully, that he has been faithful to that early vow. 
Such a life is so simple that years may be chronicled in a few 
lines. But few men’s life-voyages are destined to be all pros- 
perous ; and this calm of which we are speaking was soon to 
come to an end. 

As Esmond grew, and observed for himself, he found of 
necessity much to read and think of outside that fond circle of 
kinsfolk who had admitted him to join hand with them. He 
read more books than they cared to study with him; was alone 
in the midst of them many a time, and passed nights over 
labours, futile perhaps, but in which they could not join him. 
His dear mistress divined his thoughts with her usual jealous 
watchfulness of affection : began to forebode a time when he 
would escape from his home-nest ; and at his eager protesta- 
tions to the contrary, would only sigh and shake her head. 
Before those fatal decrees in life are executed, there are always 
secret previsions and warning omens. When everything yet 
seems calm, we are aware that the storm is coming. Ere the 
happy days were over, two at least of that home-party felt that 
they were drawing to a close ; and were uneasy, and on the 
look-out for the cloud which was to obscure their calm. 

’Twas easy for Harry to see, however much his lady per- 
sisted in obedience and admiration for her husband, that my 
Lord tired of his quiet life, and grew weary, and then testy, 
at those gentle bonds with which his wife would have held 

E 


66 


The History of 

him. As they say the grand Lama of Thibet is very much 
fatigued by his character of divinity, and yawns on his altar as 
his bonzes kneel and worship him, many a home-god grows 
heartily sick of the reverence with which his family-devotees 
pursue him, and sighs for freedom and for his old life, and to 
be off the pedestal on which his dependants would have him 
sit for ever, whilst they adore him, and ply him with flowers, 
and hymns, and incense, and flattery ; — so after a few years of 
his marriage my honest Lord Castlewood began to tire ; all the 
high-flown raptures and devotional ceremonies with which his 
wife, his chief-priestess, treated him, first sent him to sleep, 
and then drove him out of doors ; for the truth must be told, 
that my Lord was a jolly gentleman, with very little of the 
august or divine in his nature, though his fond wife persisted 
in revering it — and, besides, he had to pay a penalty for this 
love, which persons of his disposition seldom like to defray : 
and, in a word, if he had a loving wife, had a very jealous and 
exacting one. Then he wearied of this jealousy ; then he 
broke away from it ; then came, no doubt, complaints and re- 
criminations ; then perhaps, promises of amendment not ful- 
filled ; then upbraidings not the more pleasant because they 
were silent, and only sad looks and tearful eyes conveyed 
them. Then, perhaps, the pair reached that other stage which 
is not uncommon in married life, when the woman perceives 
that the god of the honeymoon is a god no more ; only a 
mortal like the rest of us — and so she looks into her heart, 
and lo ! vacua sedes et inania arcana. And now, supposing our 
lady to have a fine genius and a brilliant wit of her own, and 
the magic spell and infatuation removed from her which had 
led her to worship as a god a very ordinary mortal — and what 
follows ? They live together, and they dine together, and 
they say ‘‘ my dear ” and “ my love ” as heretofore ; but the 
man is himself, and the woman herself : that dream of love is 
over as everything else is over in life ; as flowers and fury, 
and griefs and pleasures are over. 

Very likely the Lady Castlewood had ceased to adore her 
husband herself long before she got off her knees, or would 
allow her household to discontinue worshipping him. To do 
him justice, my Lord never exacted this subservience ; he 


Henry Esmond 


67 


laughed and joked and drank his bottle, and swore when he 
was angry, much too familiarly for any one pretending to 
sublimity ; and did his best to destroy the ceremonial with 
which his wife chose to surround him. And it required no 
great conceit on young Esmond’s part to see that his own 
brains were better than his patron’s, who, indeed, never assumed 
any airs of superiority over the lad, or over any dependant of 
his, save when he was displeased, in which case he would 
express his mind in oaths very freely ; and who, on the con- 
trary, perhaps, spoiled ‘‘Parson Harry,” as he called young 
I Esmond, by constantly praising his parts and admiring his 
boyish stock of learning. 

It may seem ungracious in one who has received a hundred 
favours from his patron to speak in any but a reverential manner 
of his elders ; but the present writer has had descendants of 
his own, whom he has brought up with as little as possible of 
the servility at present exacted by parents from children (under 
I which mask of duty there often lurks indifference, contempt, 
or rebellion) : and as he would have his grandsons believe or 
represent him to be not an inch taller than Nature has made 
him : so, with regard to his past acquaintances, he would speak 
without anger, but with truth, as far as he knows it, neither 
extenuating nor setting down aught in malice. 

So long, then, as the world moved according to Lord Castle- 
wood’s wishes, he was good-humoured enough ; of a temper 
naturally sprightly and easy, liking to joke, especially with his 
' inferiors, and charmed to receive the tribute of their laughter. 
All exercises of the body he could perform to perfection — 
shooting at a mark and flying, breaking horses, riding at the 
ring, pitching the quoit, playing at all games with great skill. 
And not only did he do these things well, but he thought he 
did them to perfection ; hence he was often tricked about 
horses, which he pretended to know better than any jockey ; 
‘ was made to play at ball and billiards by sharpers who took 
his money, and came back from London woefully poorer each 
time than he went, as the state of his affairs testified when the 
sudden accident came by which his career was brought to an 
end. 

He was fond of the parade of dress, and passed as many 


I, 


68 


The History of 

hours daily at his toilette as an elderly coquette. A tenth 
part of his day was spent in the brushing of his teeth and the 
oiling of his hair, which was curling and brown, and which he 
did not like to conceal under a periwig, such as almost every- 
body of that time wore. (We have the liberty of our hair 
back now, but powder and pomatum along with it. When, I 
wonder, will these monstrous poll-taxes of our age be with- 
drawn, and men allowed to carry their colours, black, red, 
or grey, as Nature made them ?) And as he liked her to 
be well dressed, his lady spared no pains in that matter to 
please him ; indeed, she would dress her head or cut it olF if 
he had bidden her. 

It was a wonder to young Esmond, serving as page to my 
Lord and Lady, to hear, day after day, to such company as 
came, the same boisterous stories told by my Lord, at which 
his lady never failed to smile or hold down her head, and 
Doctor Tusher to burst out laughing at the proper point, or 
cry, “ Fie, my lord, remember my cloth ! ” but with such a 
faint show of resistance, that it only provoked my Lord fur- 
ther. Lord Castlewood’s stories rose by degrees, and became 
stronger after the ale at dinner, and the bottle afterwards ; my 
Lady always taking flight after the very first glass to Church | 
and King, and leaving the gentlemen to drink the rest of the | 
toasts by themselves. | 

And, as Harry Esmond was her page, he also was called 
from duty at this time. “ My Lord has lived in the army and 
with soldiers,” she would say to the lad, “ amongst whom 
great license is allowed. You have had a different nurture, 
and I trust these things will change as you grow older ; not 
that any fault attaches to my Lord, who is one of the best 
and most religious men in this kingdom.” And very likely 
she believed so. ’Tis strange what a man may do, and a 
woman yet think him an angel. 

And as Esmond has taken truth for his motto, it must be 
owned, even with regard to that other angel, his mistress, that 
she had a fault of character which flawed her perfections. 
With the other sex perfectly tolerant and kindly, of her own i 
she was invariably jealous ; and a proof that she had this vice 
is, that though she would acknowledge a thousand faults that 


Henry Esmond 69 

she had not, to this which she had she could never be got to 
own. But if there came a woman with even a semblance of 
beauty to Castlewood, she was so sure to find out some 
wrong in her, that my Lord, laughing in his jolly way, 
would often joke with her concerning her foible. Comely 
servant-maids might come for hire, but none were taken at 
Castlewood. The housekeeper was old ; my Lady’s own 
waiting- woman squinted, and was marked with the small- 
pox ; the housemaids and scullion were ordinary country 
wenches, to whom Lady Castlewood was kind, as her nature 
made her to everybody almost ; but as soon as ever she had to 
do with a pretty woman, she was cold, retiring, and haughty. 
The country ladies found this fault in her ; and though the 
men all admired her, their wives and daughters complained of 
her coldness and airs, and said that Castlewood was pleasanter 
in Lady Jezebel’s time (as the dowager was called) than at 
present. Some few were of my mistress’s side. Old Lady 
Blenkinsop Jointure, who had been at Court in King James 
the First’s time, always took her side ; and so did old Mistress 
Crookshank, Bishop Crookshank’s daughter, of Hexton, who, 
with some more of their like, pronounced my Lady an angel : 
but the pretty women were not of this mind ; and the opinion 
of the country was that my Lord was tied to his wife’s apron- 
strings, and that she ruled over him. 

The second fight which Harry Esmond had, was at fourteen 
years of age, with Bryan Hawkshaw, Sir John Hawkshaw’s 
son, of Bramblebrook, who, advancing his opinion that my 
Lady was jealous and henpecked my Lord, put Harry in such a 
fury, that Harry fell on him and with such rage, that the other 
boy, who was two years older and by far bigger than he, had 
by far the worst of the assault, until it was interrupted by 
Doctor Tusher walking out of the dinner-room. 

Bryan Hawkshaw got up bleeding at the nose, having, 
indeed, been surprised, as many a stronger man might have 
been, by the fury of the assault upon him. 

“ You little bastard beggar ! ” he said, ‘‘ I’ll murder you for 
this ! ” 

And indeed he was big enough. 

“ Bastard or not,” said the other, grinding his teeth, “ I 


70 


The History of 

have a couple of swords, and if you like to meet me, as a man, 
on the terrace to-night ” 

And here the Doctor coming up, the colloquy of the young 
champions ended. Very likely, big as he was, Hawkshaw did 
not care to continue a fight with such a ferocious opponent as 
this had been. 


Chapter VIII 

After Good Fortune comes Evil 

Since my Lady Mary Wortley Montagu brought home the 
custom of inoculation from Turkey (a perilous practice many 
deem it, and only a useless rushing into the jaws of danger), I 
think the severity of the small-pox, that dreadful scourge of the 
world, has somewhat been abated in our part of it ; and remem- 
ber in my time hundreds of the young and beautiful who have 
been carried to the grave, or have only risen from their pillows 
frightfully scarred and disfigured by this malady. Many a sweet 
face hath left its roses on the bed on which this dreadful and 
withering blight has laid them. In my early days, this pesti- 
lence would enter a village and destroy half its inhabitants : at 
its approach, it may well be imagined not only the beautiful 
but the strongest were alarmed, and those fled who could. 
One day in the year 1694 (I have good reason to remember it), 
Dr Tusher ran into Castlewood House, with a face of con- 
sternation, saying that the malady had made its appearance at 
the blacksmith’s house in the village, and that one of the maids 
there was down in the small-pox. 

The blacksmith, besides his forge and irons for horses, had 
an alehouse for men, which his wife kept, and his company sat 
on benches before the inn door, looking at the smithy while 
they drank their beer. Now, there was a pretty girl at this 
inn, the landlord’s Jmen called Nancy Sievewright, a bouncing, 
fresh-looking lass, whose face was as red as the hollyhocks 
over the pales of the garden behind the inn. At this time 
Harry Esmond was a lad of sixteen, and somehow in his walks 
and rambles it often happened that he fell in with Nancy 
Sievewright’s bonny face; if he did not want something done at 


Henry Esmond 7 1 

the blacksmith’s he would go and drink ale at the “ Three 
Castles,” or find some pretext for seeing this poor Nancy. 
Poor thing, Harry meant or imagined no harm; and she, no 
doubt, as little; but the truth is they were always meeting — in 
the lanes, or by the brook, or at the garden palings, or about 
Castlewood : it was, ‘‘ Lord, Mr Henry ! ” and “ How do you 
do, Nancy ? ” many and many a time in the week. ’Tis sur- 
prising the magnetic attraction which draws people together 
from ever so far. I blush as I think of poor Nancy now, in a 
red bodice and buxom purple cheeks and a canvas petticoat ; 
and that I devised schemes, and set traps, and made speeches 
in my heart, which I seldom had courage to say when in 
presence of that humble enchantress, who knew nothing be- 
yond milking a cow, and opened her black eyes with wonder, 
when I made one of my fine speeches out of Waller or Ovid. 
Poor Nancy ! from the midst of far-off years thine honest 
country face beams out ; and I remember thy kind voice as if I 
had heard it yesterday. 

When Doctor Tusher brought the news that the small-pox 
was at the “ Three Castles,” whither a tramper, it was said, 
had brought the malady, Henry Esmond’s first thought was of 
alarm for poor Nancy, and then of shame and disquiet for the 
Castlewood family, lest he might have brought this infection ; 
for the truth is that Mr Harry had been sitting in a back room 
for an hour that day, where Nancy Sievewright was with a 
little brother who complained of headache, and was lying 
stupefied and crying, either in a chair by the corner of the fire, 
or on Nancy’s lap, or on mine. 

Little Lady Beatrix screamed out at Dr Tusher’s news ; and 
my Lord cried out, “ God bless me ! ” He was a brave man, 
and not afraid of death in any shape but this. He was very 
proud of his pink complexion and fair hair — but the idea of 
death by small-pox scared him beyond all other ends. “We 
will take the children and ride away to-morrow to Walcote 
this was my Lord’s small house, inherited from his mother, near 
to Winchester. 

“ That is the best refuge in case the disease spreads,” said 
Doctor Tusher. “ ’Tis awful to think of it beginning at the 
ale-house; half the people of the village have visited that to-day. 


72 


The History of 

or the blacksmith’s which is the same thing. My clerk Nahum 
lodges with them — I can never go into my reading-desk and 
have that fellow so near me. I nvor^t have that man near me.” 

“ If a parishioner dying in the small-pox sent to you, would 
you not go ? ” asked my Lady, looking up from her frame of 
work, with her calm blue eyes. 

“By the Lord, / wouldn’t,” said my Lord. 

“We are not in a Popish country ; and a sick man doth not 
absolutely need absolution and confession,” said the Doctor. 
“ ’Tis true they are a comfort and a help to him when attain- 
able, and to be administered with hope of good. But in a case 
where the life of a parish priest in the midst of his flock is 
highly valuable to them, he is not called upon to risk it (and 
therewith the lives, future prospects, and temporal, even 
spiritual welfare of his own family) for the sake of a single 
person, who is not very likely in a condition even to understand 
the religious message whereof the priest is the bringer — being 
uneducated, and likewise stupefied or delirious by disease. If 
your Ladyship or his Lordship, my excellent good friend and 
patron, were to take it ” 

“ God forbid ! ” cried my Lord. 

“ Amen,” continued Dr Tusher. “ Amen to that prayer, 
my very good Lord ! for your sake I would lay my life down,” 
— and, to judge from the alarmed look of the Doctor’s purple 
face, you would have thought that that sacrifice was about to 
be called for instantly. 

To love children, and be gentle with them, was an instinct, 
rather than a merit, in Henry Esmond ; so much so, that he 
thought almost with a sort of shame of his liking for them, 
and of the softness into which it betrayed him ; and on this 
day the poor fellow had not only had his young friend, the 
milkmaid’s brother, on his knee, but had been drawing pictures 
and telling stories to the little Frank Castle wood, who had 
occupied the same place for an hour after dinner, and was 
never tired of Henry’s tales, and his pictures of soldiers and 
horses. As luck would have it, Beatrix had not on that 
evening taken her usual place, which generally she was glad 
enough to have, upon her tutor’s lap. For Beatrix, from the 
earliest time, was jealous of every caress which was given to 


73 


Henry Esmond 

her little brother Frank. She would fling away even from 
the maternal arms, if she saw Frank had been there before 
her ; insomuch that Lady Esmond was obliged not to show 
her love for her son in the presence of the little girl, and 
embrace one or the other alone. She would turn pale and 
red with rage if she caught signs of intelligence or affection 
between Frank and his mother ; would sit apart and not speak 
for a whole night, if she thought the boy had a better fruit 
or a larger cake than hers ; would fling away a ribbon if he 
had one ; and from the earliest age, sitting up in her little 
chair by the great fireplace opposite to the corner where Lady 
Castlewood commonly sat at her embroidery, would utter 
infantine sarcasms about the favour shown to her brother. 
These, if spoken in the presence of Lord Castlewood, tickled 
and amused his humour; he would pretend to love Frank 
best, and dandle and kiss him, and roar with laughter at 
Beatrix’s jealousy. But the truth is, my Lord did not often 
witness these scenes, nor very much trouble the quiet fireside 
at which his lady passed many long evenings. My Lord was 
hunting all day when the season admitted ; he frequented all 
the cock-fights and fairs in the country, and would ride twenty 
miles to see a main fought, or two clowns break their heads 
at a cudgelling match ; and he liked better to sit in his parlour 
drinking ale and punch with Jack and Tom, than in his wife’s 
drawing-room : whither, if he came, he brought only too often 
bloodshot eyes, a hiccuping voice, and a reeling gait. The 
management of the house, and the property, the care of the 
few tenants and the village poor and the accounts of the estate, 
were in the hands of his lady and her young secretary, Harry 
Esmond. My Lord took charge of the stables, the kennel, 
and the cellar — and he filled this, and emptied it too. 

So it chanced that upon this very day, when poor Harry 
Esmond had had the blacksmith’s son, and the peer’s son, 
alike upon his knee, little Beatrix, who would come to her 
tutor willingly enough with her book and her writing, had 
refused him, seeing the place occupied by her brother, and, 
luckily for her, had sat at the further end of the room, away 
from him, playing with a spaniel dog which she had (and for 
which, by fits and starts, she would take a great affection). 


74 


The History of 

and talking at Harry Esmond over her shoulder, as she pre- 
tended to caress the dog, saying that Fido would love her, 
and she would love Fido, and nothing but Fido, all her life. 

When, then, the news was brought that the little boy at 
the ‘‘ Three Castles ” was ill with the small-pox, poor Harry 
Esmond felt a shock of alarm, not so much for himself as for 
his mistress’ son, whom he might have brought into peril. 
Beatrix, who had pouted sufficiently (and who, whenever a 
stranger appeared, began, from infancy almost, to play off 
little graces to catch his attention), her brother being now gone 
to bed, was for taking her place upon Esmond’s knee : for, 
though the Doctor was very obsequious to her, she did not 
like him, because he had thick boots and dirty hands (the 
pert young miss said), and because she hated learning the 
Catechism. 

But as she advanced towards Esmond from the corner where 
she had been sulking, he started back and placed the great 
chair on which he was sitting between him and her — saying 
in the French language to Lady Castlewood, with whom the 
young lad had read much, and whom he had perfected in this 
tongue — ‘‘ Madam, the child must not approach me ; I must 
tell you that I was at the blacksmith’s to-day, and had his 
little boy upon my lap.” 

“Where you took my son afterwards,” Lady Castlewood 
said, very angry, and turning red. “ I thank you, sir, for giving 
him such company. Beatrix,” she said in English, “ I forbid 
you to touch Mr Esmond. Come away, child — come to your 
room. Come to your room — I wish your Reverence good- 
night — and you, sir, had you not better go back to your 
friends at the ale-house ? ” Her eyes, ordinarily so kind, 
darted flashes of anger as she spoke ; and she tossed up her 
head (which hung down commonly) with the mien of a princess. 

“ Hey-day ! ” says my Lord, who was standing by the fire- 
place — indeed he was in the position to which he generally 
came by that hour of the evening — “ Hey-day ! Rachel, what 
are you in a passion about Ladies ought never to be in a 
passion — ought they. Dr Tusher ? — though it does good to see 
Rachel in a passion. Damme, Lady Castlewood, you look 
dev’lish handsome in a passion.” 


Henry Esmond 75 

“ It is, my Lord, because Mr Henry Esmond, having nothing 
to do with his time here, and not having a taste for our com- 
pany, has been to the alehouse, where he has some friends, 

My Lord burst out with a laugh and an oath : “ You young 

slyboots, you’ve been at Nancy Sievewright. D the young 

hypocrite, who’d have thought it in him ? I say, Tusher, he’s 
been after ” 

“ Enough, my Lord,” said my Lady ; ‘‘ don’t insult me with 
this talk.” 

“ Upon my word,” said poor Harry, ready to cry with shame 
and mortification, the honour of that young person is per- 
fectly unstained for me.” 

“ Oh, of course, of course,” says my Lord, more and more 
laughing and tipsy. “Upon his honour. Doctor — Nancy 
Sieve ” 

“Take Mistress Beatrix to bed,” my Lady cried at this 
moment to Mrs Tucker her woman, who came in with her 
Ladyship’s tea. “ Put her into my room — no, into yours,” she 
added quickly. “ Go, my child : go, I say : not a word ! ” 
And Beatrix, quite surprised at so sudden a tone of authority 
from one who was seldom accustomed to raise her voice, went 
out of the room with a scared countenance, and waited even 
to burst out a-crying until she got to the door with Mrs 
Tucker. 

For once her mother took little heed of her sobbing, and 
continued to speak eagerly — “My Lord,” she said, “this 
young man — your dependant — told me just now in French — 
he was ashamed to speak in his own language — that he had 
been at the alehouse all day, where he has had that little wretch 
who is now ill of the small-pox on his knee. And he comes 
home reeking from that place — yes, reeking from it — and takes 
my boy into his lap without shame, and sits down by me, yes, 
by me. He may have killed Frank for what I know — killed 
our child. Why was he brought in to disgrace our house ? 
Why is he here ? Let him go — let him go, I say, to-night, 
and pollute the place no more.” 

She had never once uttered a syllable of unkindness to Harry 
Esmond ; and her cruel words smote the poor boy, so that he 
stood for some moments bewildered with grief and rage at the 


76 The History of 

injustice of such a stab from such a hand. He turned quite 
white from red, which he had been. 

“ I cannot help my birth, madam,” he said, “ nor my other 
misfortune. And as for your boy, if — if my coming nigh to 
him pollutes him now, it was not so always. Good-night, my 
Lord. Heaven bless you and yours for your goodness to me. 
I have tired her Ladyship’s kindness out, and I will go ; ” and, 
sinking down on his knee, Harry Esmond took the rough hand 
of his benefactor and kissed it. 

** He wants to go to the alehouse — let him go,” cried my 
Lady. 

“I’m d d if he shall,” said my Lord. “I didn’t think 

you could be so d d ungrateful, Rachel.” 

Her reply was to burst into a flood of tears, and to quit the 
room with a rapid glance at Harry Esmond, as my Lord, not 
heeding them, and still in great good-humour, raised up his 
young client from his kneeling posture (for a thousand kind- 
nesses had caused the lad to revere my Lord as a father), and 
put his broad hand on Harry Esmond’s shoulder. 

“ She was always so,” my Lord said ; “ the very notion of a 
woman drives her mad. I took to liquor on that very account, 
by Jove, for no other reason than that ; for she can’t be jealous 

of a beer-barrel or a bottle of rum, can she, Doctor ? D 

it, look at the maids — just look at the maids in the house ” (my 
Lord pronounced all the words together — just-look-at-the-maze- 
in-the-house : jever-see-such-maze ?). You wouldn’t take a 
wife out of Castle wood now, would you. Doctor ? ” and my 
Lord burst out laughing. 

The Doctor, who had been looking at my Lord Castlewood 
from under his eyelids, said, “ But joking apart, and, my Lord, 
as a divine, I cannot treat the subject in a jocular light, nor, as 
a pastor of this congregation, look with anything but sorrow at 
the idea of so very young a sheep going astray.” 

“ Sir,” said young Esmond, bursting out indignantly, “ she 
told me that you yourself were a horrid old man, and had 
offered to kiss her in the dairy.” 

“ For shame, Henry,” cried Doctor Tusher, turning as red 
as a turkey-cock, while my Lord continued to roar with laughter. 
“ If you listen to the falsehoods of an abandoned girl ” 


77 


Henry Esmond 

She is as honest as any woman in England, and as pure for 
me,” cried out Henry, “ and as kind, and as good. For shame 
on you to malign her ! ” 

“Far be it from me to do so,” cried the Doctor. “ Heaven 
grant I may be mistaken in the girl, and in you, sir, who have 
a truly precocious genius; but that is not the point at issue at 
present. It appears that the small-pox broke out in the little 
boy at the ‘ Three Castles ’ ; that it was on him when you 
visited the alehouse, for your own reasons ; and that you sat 
with the child for some time, and immediately afterwards 
with my young Lord.” The Doctor raised his voice as 
he spoke, and looked towards my Lady, who had now 
come back, looking very pale, with a handkerchief in her 
hand. 

“ This is all very true, sir,” said Lady Esmond, looking at 
the young man. 

“ ’Tis to be feared that he may have brought the infection 
with him.” 

“ From the alehouse — yes,” said my Lady. 

“D it, I forgot when I collared you, boy,” cried my 

Lord, stepping back. “ Keep oif, Harry, my boy ; there’s no 
good in running into the wolf’s jaws, you know.” 

My Lady looked at him with some surprise, and instantly 
advancing to Henry Esmond, took his hand. “ I beg your 
pardon, Henry,” she said; “I spoke very unkindly. I have 
no right to interfere with you — with your ” 

My Lord broke out into an oath. “ Can’t you leave the boy 
alone, my Lady } ” She looked a little red, and faintly pressed 
the lad’s hand as she dropped it. 

“ There is no use, my Lord,” she said ; “ Frank was on his 
knee as he was making pictures, and was running constantly 
from Henry to me. The evil is done, if any.” 

“ Not with me, damme,” cried my Lord. “ I’ve been smok- 
ing,” — and he lighted his pipe again with a coal — “ and it keeps 
off infection ; and as the disease is in the village— plague take 
it ! — I would have you leave it. We’ll go to-morrow to Wal- 
cote, my Lady.” 

“ I have no fear,” said my Lady ; “ I may have had it as an 
infant ; it broke out in our house then ; and when four of my 


yS The History of 

sisters had it at home, two years before our marriage, I escaped 
it, and two of my dear sisters died.” 

“ I won’t run the risk,” said my Lord ; ‘‘ I’m as bold as any 
man, but I’ll not bear that.” 

‘‘ Take Beatrix with you and go,” said my Lady. “For us 
the mischief is done ; and Tucker can wait upon us, who has 
had the disease.” 

“ You take care to choose ’em ugly enough,” said my Lord, 
at which her Ladyship hung down her head and looked foolish ; 
and my Lord, calling away Tusher, bade him come to the oak 
parlour and have a pipe. The Doctor made a low bow to her 
Ladyship (of which salaams he was profuse), and walked off on 
his creaking square-toes after his patron. 

When the lady and the young man were alone, there was a 
silence of some moments, during which he stood at the fire, 
looking rather vacantly at the dying embers, whilst her Lady- 
ship busied herself with the tambour-frame and needles. 

“ I am sorry,” she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice, — 
“ I repeat I am sorry that I showed myself so ungrateful for the 
safety of my son. It was not at all my wish that you should 
leave us, I am sure, unless you found pleasure elsewhere. But 
you must perceive, Mr Esmond, that at your age, and with 
your tastes, it is impossible that you can continue to stay upon 
the intimate footing in which you have been in this family. 
You have wished to go to the University, and I think ’tis quite 
as well that you should be sent thither. I did not press this 
matter, thinking you a child, as you are, indeed, in years — quite 
a child ; and I should never have thought of treating you other- 
wise until — until these circumstances came to light. And I 
shall beg my Lord to despatch you as quick as possible : and 
will go on with Frank’s learning as well as I can (I owe my 
father thanks for a little grounding, and you, I’m sure, for much 
that you have taught me), — and — and I wish you a good-night, 
Mr Esmond.” 

And with this she dropped a stately curtsey, and, taking her 
candle, went away through the tapestry door, which led to her 
apartments. Esmond stood by the fireplace, blankly staring 
after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed to see until she was gone ; 
and then her image was impressed upon him, and remained for 


79 


Henry Esmond 

ever fixed upon his memory. He saw her retreating, the taper 
lighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quivering, and her 
shining golden hair. He went to his own room, and to bed, 
where he tried to read, as his custom was ; but he never knew 
what he was reading until afterwards he remembered the 
appearance of the letters of the book (it was in Montaigne’s 
Essays), and the events of the day passed before him — that is, 
of the last hour of the day ; for as for the morning, and the 
poor milkmaid yonder, he never so much as once thought. 
And he could not get to sleep until daylight, and woke with 
a violent headache, and quite unrefreshed. 

He had brought the contagion with him from the “ Three 
Castles ” sure enough, and was presently laid up with the small- 
pox, which spared the hall no more than it did the cottage. 

Chapter IX 

I have the Small-Pox, and prepare to leave Castlewood 

When Harry Esmond passed through the crisis of that malady, 
and returned to health again, he found that little Frank 
Esmond had also suffered and rallied after the disease, and the 
lady his mother was down with it, with a couple more of the 
household. “ It was a Providence, for which we all ought to 
be thankful,” Doctor Tusher said, that my Lady and her son 
were spared, while Death carried off the poor domestics of the 
house ; ” and rebuked Harry for asking, in his simple way, for 
which we ought to be thankful — that the servants were killed, 
or the gentlefolks were saved Nor could young Esmond 
agree in the Doctor’s vehement protestations to my Lady, when 
he visited her during her convalescence, that the malady had 
not in the least impaired her charms, and had not been churl 
enough to injure the fair features of the Viscountess of Castle- 
wood ; whereas, in spite of these fine speeches, Harry thought 
that her Ladyship’s beauty was very much injured by the 
small-pox. When the marks of the disease cleared away, 
they did not, it is true, leave furrows or scars on her face 
(except one, perhaps, on her forehead over her left eyebrow); 
but the delicacy of her rosy colour and complexion was gone : 


8o 


The History of 

her eyes had lost their brilliancy, her hair fell, and her face 
looked older. It was as if a coarse hand had rubbed off the 
delicate tints of that sweet picture, and brought it, as one 
has seen unskilful painting-cleaners do, to the dead colour. 
Also, it must be owned, that for a year or two after the malady, 
her Ladyship’s nose was swollen and redder. 

There would be no need to mention these trivialities, but 
that they actually influenced many lives, as trifles will in the 
world, where a gnat often plays a greater part than an ele- 
phant, and a molehill, as we know in King William’s case, can 
upset an empire. When Tusher in his courtly way (at which 
Harry Esmond always chafed and spoke scornfully) vowed and 
protested that my Lady’s face was none the worse — the lad 
broke out and said, ‘‘ It is worse : and my mistress is not near 
so handsome as she was j ” on which poor Lady Castlewood 
gave a rueful smile, and a look into a little Venice glass she 
had, which showed her, I suppose, that what the stupid boy 
said was only too true, for she turned away from the glass, and 
her eyes filled with tears. 

The sight of these in Esmond’s heart always created a sort 
of rage of pity, and seeing them on the face of the lady whom 
he loved best, the young blunderer sank down on his knees, 
and besought her to pardon him, saying that he was a fool and 
an idiot, that he was a brute to make such a speech, he who 
had caused her malady : and Doctor Tusher told him that 
a bear he was indeed, and a bear he would remain, at which 
speech poor young Esmond was so dumb-stricken, that he did 
not even growl. 

“He is my bear, and I will not have him baited. Doctor,” my 
Lady said, patting her hand kindly on the boy’s head, as he 
was still kneeling at her feet. “ How your hair has come oflp ! 
And mine, too,” she added, with another sigh. 

“ It is not for myself that I cared,” my Lady said to Harry, 
when the parson had taken his leave ; “ but am I very much 
changed Alas ! I fear ’tis too true.” 

“ Madam, you have the dearest, and kindest, and sweetest 
face in the world, I think,” the lad said; and indeed he thought 
and thinks so. 

“ Will my Lord think so when he comes back ? ” the lady 


8i 


Henry Esmond 

asked, with a sigh, and another look at her Venice glass. 
‘‘Suppose he should think as you do, sir, that I am hideous — 
yes, you said hideous — he will cease to care for me. ’Tis all 
men care for in women, our little beauty. Why did he select 
me from among my sisters ? ’Twas only for that. We reign 
but for a day or two ; and be sure that Vashti knew Esther 
was coming.” 

“ Madam,” said Mr Esmond, “ Ahasuerus was the Grand 
Turk, and to change was the manner of his country, and 
according to his law.” 

“ You are all Grand Turks for that matter,” said my Lady, 
“or would be if you could. Come, Frank, come, my child. 
You are well, praised be Heaven. Tour locks are not thinned 
by this dreadful small-pox : nor your poor face scarred — is it, 
my angel ? ” 

Frank began to shout and whimper at the idea of such a 
misfortune. From the very earliest time the young Lord 
had been taught to admire his beauty by his mother : and 
esteemed it as highly as any reigning toast valued hers. 

One day, as he himself was recovering from his fever and 
illness, a pang of something like shame shot across young 
Esmond’s breast, as he remembered that he [had never once 
during his illness given a thought to the poor girl at the 
smithy, whose red cheeks but a month ago he had been so 
eager to see. Poor Nancy ! her cheeks had shared the fate 
of roses, and were withered now. She had taken the illness 
on the same day with Esmond — she and her brother were 
both dead of the small-pox, and buried under the Castlewood 
yew-trees. There was no bright face looking now from the 
garden, or to cheer the old smith at his lonely fireside. Es- 
mond would have liked to have kissed her in her shroud (like 
the lass in Mr Prior’s pretty poem) ; but she rested many a 
foot below the ground, when Esmond after his malady first 
trod on it. 

Doctor Tusher brought the news of this calamity, about 
which Harry Esmond longed to ask, but did not like. He said 
almost the whole village had been stricken with the pestilence'; 
seventeen persons were dead of it, among them mentioning 
the names of poor Nancy and her little brother. He did not 


82 


The History of 

fail to say how thankful we survivors ought to be. It being 
this man’s business to flatter and make sermons, it must be 
owned he was most industrious in it, and was doing the one 
or the other all day. 

And so Nancy was gone ; and Harry Esmond blushed that 
he had not a single tear for her, and fell to composing an elegy 
in Latin verses over the rustic little beauty. He bade the 
dryads mourn and the river-nymphs deplore her. As her 
father followed the calling of Vulcan, he said that surely she 
was like a daughter of Venus, though Sieve wright’s wife was 
an ugly shrew, as he remembered to have heard afterwards. 
He made a long face, but, in truth, felt scarcely more sorrow- 
ful than a mute at a funeral. These first passions of men and 
women are mostly abortive ; and are dead almost before they 
are born. Esmond could repeat, to his last day, some of the 
doggerel lines in which his muse bewailed his pretty lass ; not 
without shame to remember how bad the verses were, and 
how good he thought them ; how false the grief, and yet how 
he was rather proud of it. ’Tis an error, surely, to talk of 
the simplicity of youth. I think no persons are more hypo- 
critical, and have a more affected behaviour to one another, 
than the young. They deceive themselves and each other 
with artifices that do not impose upon men of the world ; and 
so we get to understand truth better, and grow simpler as we 
grow older. 

When my Lady heard of the fate which had befallen poor 
Nancy, she said nothing so long as Tusher was by, but when 
he was gone, she took Harry Esmond’s hand and said — 

‘‘ Harry, I beg your pardon for those cruel words I used on 
the night you were taken ill. I am shocked at the fate of 
the poor creature, and am sure that nothing had happened of 
that with which, in my anger, I charged you. And the very 
first day we go out, you must take me to the blacksmith, and 
we must see if there is anything I can do to console the poor 
old man. Poor man ! to lose both his children ! What should 
I do without mine ? ” 

And this was, indeed, the very first walk which my Lady 
took, leaning on Esmond’s arm, after her illness. But her 
visit brought no consolation to the old father ; and he showed 


Henry Esmond 83 

no softness, or desire to speak. “ The Lord gave and took 
away,” he said ; and he knew what His servant’s duty was. 
He wanted for nothing — less now than ever before, as there 
were fewer mouths to feed. He wished her Ladyship and 
Master Esmond good morning — he had grown tall in his illness, 
and was but very little marked ; and with this, and a surly 
bow, he went in from the smithy to the house, leaving my 
Lady, somewhat silenced and shamefaced, at the door. He 
had a handsome stone put up for his two children, which may 
be seen in Castlewood churchyard to this very day ; and before 
a year was out his own name was upon the stone. In the 
presence of Death, that sovereign ruler, a woman’s coquetry 
is scared ; and her jealousy will hardly pass the boundaries of 
that grim kingdom. ’Tis entirely of the earth that passion, 
and expires in the cold blue air beyond our sphere. 

At length, when the danger was quite over, it was announced 
that my Lord and his daughter would return. Esmond well 
remembered the day. The lady his mistress was in a flurry 
of fear : before my Lord came, she went into her room, and 
returned from it with reddened cheeks. Her fate was about 
to be decided. Her beauty was gone — was her reign, too, 
over ? A minute would say. My Lord came riding over the 
bridge — he could be seen from the great window, clad in 
scarlet, and mounted on his grey hackney — his little daughter 
ambled by him in a bright riding-dress of blue, on a shining 
chestnut horse. My Lady leaned against the great mantelpiece, 
looking on, with one hand on her heart — she seemed only the 
more pale for those red marks on either cheek. She put her 
handkerchief to her eyes, and withdrew it, laughing hysteri- 
cally — the cloth was quite red with the rouge when she took 
it away. She ran to her room again, and came back with pale 
cheeks and red eyes — her son in her hand — just as my Lord 
entered, accompanied by young Esmond, who had gone out to 
meet his protector, and to hold his stirrup as he descended from 
horseback. 

What, Harry, boy ! ” my Lord said good-naturedly, “ you 
look as gaunt as a greyhound. The small-pox hasn’t improved 
your beauty, and your side of the house hadn’t never too much 
of it — ho, ho ! ” 


84 The History of 

And he laughed, and sprang to the ground with no small 
agility, looking handsome and red, with a jolly face and brown 
hair, like a Beefeater ; Esmond kneeling again, as soon as his 
patron had descended, performed his homage, and then went 
to greet the little Beatrix, and help her from her horse. 

“Fie! how yellow you look!” she said; “and there are 
one, two, red holes in your face ; ” which, indeed, was very 
true ; Harry Esmond’s harsh countenance bearing, as long as it 
continued to be a human face, the marks of the disease. 

My Lord laughed again, in high good-humour. 

“ D it ! ” said he, with one of his usual oaths, “ the 

little slut sees everything. She saw the Dowager’s paint 
t’other day, and asked her why she wore that red stuff — 
didn’t you, Trix ? and the Tower ; and St James’s ; and the 
play ; and the Prince George, and the Princess Anne — didn’t 
you, Trix 

“They are both very fat, and smelt of brandy,” the child 
said. 

Papa roared with laughing. 

“ Brandy ! ” he said. “ And how do you know. Miss Pert ?” 

“ Because your Lordship smells of it after supper, when I I 
embrace you before I go to bed,” said the young lady, who, 1 
indeed, was as pert as her father said, and looked as beautiful 
a little gipsy as eyes ever gazed on. 

“ And now for my Lady,” said my Lord, going up the stairs, 
and passing under the tapestry curtain that hung before the 
drawing-room door. Esmond remembered that noble figure, 
handsomely arrayed in scarlet. Within the last few months he 
himself had grown from a boy to be a man, and with his figure 
his thoughts had shot up, and grown manly. 

My Lady’s countenance, of which Harry Esmond was accus- 
tomed to watch the changes, and with a solicitous affection to 
note and interpret the signs of gladness or care, wore a sad and 
depressed look for many weeks after her Lord’s return: during 
which it seemed as if, by caresses and entreaties, she strove to 
win him back from some ill-humour he had, and which he did 
not choose to throw off. In her eagerness to please him she 
practised a hundred of those arts which had formerly charmed 
him, but which seemed now to have lost their potency. Her 


Henry Esmond 85 

songs did not amuse him ; and she hushed them and the 
children when in his presence. My Lord sat silent at his 
dinner, drinking greatly, his lady opposite to him, looking 
furtively at his face, though also speechless. Her silence 
annoyed him as much as her speech ; and he would peevishly, 
and with an oath, ask her why she held her tongue and looked 
so glum ; or he would roughly check her when speaking, and 
bid her not talk nonsense. It seemed as if, since his return, 
nothing she could do or say could please him. 

When a master and mistress are at strife in a house, the 
subordinates in the family take the one side or the other. 
Harry Esmond stood in so great fear of my Lord that he 
would run a league barefoot to do a message for him ; but his 
attachment for Lady Esmond was such a passion of grateful 
regard, that to spare her a grief, or to do her a service, he 
would have given his life daily : and it was by the very depth 
and intensity of this regard that he began to divine how un- 
happy his adored lady’s life was, and that a secret care (for 
she never spoke of her anxieties) was weighing upon her. 

Can any one, who has passed through the world and watched 
the nature of men and women there, doubt what had befallen 
her ? I have seen, to be sure, some people carry down with 
them into old age, the actual bloom of their youthful love, and 
I know that Mr Thomas Parr lived to be a hundred and sixty 
years old. But, for all that, threescore and ten is the age of 
men, and few get beyond it ; and ’tis certain that a man who 
marries for mere beaux yeux, as my Lord did, considers his part 
of the contract at an end when the woman ceases to fulfil hers, 
and his love does not survive her beauty. I know ’tis often 
otherwise, I say ; and can think (as most men in their own ex- 
perience may) of many a house, where, lighted in early years, 
the sainted lamp of love hath never been extinguished ; but so 
there is Mr Parr, and so there is the great giant at the fair that 
is eight feet high — exceptions to men — and that poor lamp 
whereof I speak, that lights at first the nuptial chamber, is ex- 
tinguished by a hundred winds and draughts down the chimney, 
or sputters out for want of feeding. And then — and then it is 
Chloe, in the dark, stark awake, and Strephon snoring unheed- 
ing ; or vice versdy ’tis poor Strephon that has married a heart- 


86 


The History of 

less jilt, and awoke out of that absurd vision of conjugal 
felicity, which was to last for ever, and is over like any 
other dream. One and other has made his bed, and so must 
lie in it, until that final day when life ends, and they sleep 
separate. 

About this time young Esmond, who had a knack of string- 
ing verses, turned some of Ovid’s Epistles into rhymes, and 
brought them to his lady for her delectation. Those which 
treated of forsaken women touched her immensely, Harry re- 
marked ; and when CEnone called after Paris, and Medea bade 
Jason come back again, the Lady of Castlewood sighed, and 
said she thought that part of the verses was the most pleasing. 
Indeed, she would have chopped up the Dean, her old father, 
in order to bring her husband back again. But her beautiful 
Jason was gone, as beautiful Jasons will go, and the poor 
enchantress had never a spell to keep him. 

My Lord was only sulky as long as his wife’s anxious face 
or behaviour seemed to upbraid him. When she had got to 
master these, and to show an outwardly cheerful countenance 
and behaviour, her husband’s good humour returned partially, 
and he swore and stormed no longer at dinner, but laughed 
sometimes, and yawned unrestrainedly ; absenting himself 
often from home, inviting more company thither, passing the 
greater part of his days in the hunting-field, or over the bottle 
as before ; but with this difference, that the poor wife could 
no longer see now, as she had done formerly, the light of love 
kindled in his eyes. He was with her, but that flame was out : 
and that once welcome beacon no more shone there. 

What were this lady’s feelings when forced to admit the 
truth whereof her foreboding glass had given her only too 
true warning, that with her beauty her reign had ended, and 
the days of her love were over ? What does a’seaman do in a 
storm if mast and rudder are carried away ? He ships a jury- 
mast, and steers as he best can with an oar. What happens if 
your roof falls in a tempest ? After the first stun of the 
calamity the sufferer starts up, gropes around to see that the 
children are safe, and puts them under a shed out of the rain. 
If the palace burns down, you take shelter in the barn. What 
man’s life is not overtaken by one or more of these tornadoes 


Henry Esmond 87 

that send us out of the course, and fling us on rocks to shelter 
as best we may ? 

When Lady Castlewood found that her great ship had gone 
down, she began as best she might, after she had rallied from 
the effects of the loss, to put out small ventures of happiness ; 
and hope for little gains and returns, as a merchant on ’Change, 
indocilis pauperiem pati, having lost his thousands, embarks a 
few guineas upon the next ship. She laid out her all upon her 
children, indulging them beyond all measure, as was inevitable 
with one of her kindness of disposition ; giving all her thoughts 
to their welfare — learning, that she might teach them ; and 
improving her own many natural gifts and feminine accomplish- 
ments, that she might impart them to her young ones. To be 
doing good for some one else, is the life of most good women. 
They are exuberant of kindness, as it were, and must impart 
it to some one. She made herself a good scholar of French, 
Italian, and Latin, having been grounded in these by her father 
in her youth ; hiding these gifts from her husband out of fear, 
perhaps, that they should offend him, for my Lord was no book- 
man — pish’d and psha’d at the notion of learned ladies, and 
would have been angry that his wife could construe out of a 
Latin book of which he could scarce understand two words. 
Young Esmond was usher, or house tutor, under her or over 
her, as it might happen. During my Lord’s many absences, 
these school-days would go on uninterruptedly : the mother and 
daughter learning with surprising quickness ; the latter by fits 
and starts only, and as suited her wayward humour. As for 
the little lord, it must be owned that he took after his father 
in the matter of learning — liked marbles and play, and the great 
horse and the little one which his father brought him, and on 
which he took him out a-hunting, a great deal better than 
Corderius and Lily ; marshalled the village boys, and had a 
little court of them, already flogging them, and domineering 
over them with a fine imperious spirit, that made his father 
laugh when he beheld it, and his mother fondly warn him. 
The cook had a son, the woodman had two, the big lad at 
the porter’s lodge took his cuffs and his orders. Doctor 
Tusher said he was a young nobleman of gallant spirit ; and 
Harry Esmond, who was his tutor, and eight years his little 


88 


The History of 

Lordship’s senior, had hard work sometimes to keep his own 
temper, and hold his authority over his rebellious little chief 
and kinsman. 

In a couple of years after that calamity had befallen which 
had robbed Lady Castlewood of a little — a very little — of her 
beauty, and her careless husband’s heart (if the truth must be 
told, my Lady had found not only that her reign was over, but 
that her successor was appointed, a Princess of a noble house 
in Drury Lane somewhere, who was installed and visited by 
my Lord at the town eight miles o^—pudet hcec opprobria dicere 
nobis) — a great change had taken place in her mind, which, by 
struggles only known to herself, at least never mentioned to 
anyone, and unsuspected by the person who caused the pain 
she endured — had been schooled into such a condition as she 
could not very likely have imagined possible a score of months 
since, before her misfortunes had begun. 

She had oldened in that time as people do who suffer silently 
great mental pain ; and learned much that she had never sus- 
pected before. She was taught by that bitter teacher Mis- 
fortune. A child the mother of other children, but two years 
back her lord was a god to her ; his words her law ; his smile 
her sunshine ; his lazy commonplaces listened to eagerly, as if 
they were words of wisdom — all his wishes and freaks obeyed 
with a servile devotion. She had been my Lord’s chief slave 
and blind worshipper. Some women bear further than this, 
and submit not only to neglect but to unfaithfulness too — but 
here this lady’s allegiance had failed her. Her spirit rebelled, 
and disowned any more obedience. First she had to bear in 
secret the passion of losing the adored object ; then to get a 
further initiation, and to find this worshipped being was but a 
clumsy idol : then to admit the silent truth, that it was she 
was superior, and not the monarch her master : that she had 
thoughts which his brains could never master, and was the 
better of the two ; quite separate from my Lord although tied 
to him, and bound, as almost all people (save a very happy 
few), to work all her life alone. My Lord sat in his chair, 
laughing his laugh, cracking his joke, his face flushing with 
wine — my Lady in her place over against him — he never sus- 
pecting that his superior was there, in the calm resigned lady. 


Henry Esmond 89 

cold of manner, with downcast eyes. When he was merry in 

his cups, he would make jokes about her coldness, and “D 

it, now my Lady is gone, we will have t’other bottle,” he 
would say. He was frank enough in telling his thoughts, 
such as they were. There was little mystery about my Lord’s 
words or actions. His Fair Rosamond did not live in a 
Labyrinth, like the lady of Mr Addison’s opera, but paraded 
with painted cheeks and a tipsy retinue in the country town. 
Had she a mind to be revenged. Lady Castlewood could have 
found the way to her rival’s house easily enough ; and if she 
had come with bowl and dagger, would have been routed off 
the ground by the enemy with a volley of Billingsgate, which 
the fair person always kept by her. 

Meanwhile, it has been said, that for Harry Esmond his 
benefactress’ sweet face had lost none of its charms. It had 
always the kindest of looks and smiles for him — smiles, not so 
gay and artless perhaps as those which Lady Castlewood had 
formerly worn, when a child herself, playing with her children, 
her husband’s pleasure and authority were all she thought of ; 
but out of her griefs and cares, as will happen I think when 
these trials fall upon a kindly heart, and are not too unbear- 
able, grew up a number of thoughts and excellences which 
had never come into existence, had not her sorrow and mis- 
fortunes engendered them. Sure, occasion is the father of 
most that is good in us. As you have seen the awkward 
fingers and clumsy tools of a prisoner cut and fashion the 
most delicate little pieces of carved work ; or achieve the 
most prodigious underground labours, and cut through walls 
of masonry, and saw iron bars and fetters ; ’tis misfortune 
that awakens ingenuity, or fortitude, or endurance, in hearts 
where these qualities had never come to life but for the cir- 
cumstance which give them a being. 

“ ’Twas after Jason left her, no doubt,” Lady Castlewood 
once said with one of her smiles to young Esmond (who was 
reading to her a version of certain lines out of Euripides), 
“ that Medea became a learned woman and a great enchantress.” 

“ And she could conjure the stars out of heaven,” the 
young tutor added, “ but she could not bring Jason back 
again.” 


90 


The History of 

‘‘What do you mean?” asked my Lady, very angry. 

“Indeed I mean nothing,” said the other, “save what IVe 
read in books. What should I know about such matters ? 

I have seen no woman save you and little Beatrix, and the 
parson’s wife, and my late mistress, and your Ladyship’s 
woman here.” 

“ The men who wrote your books,” says my Lady, “ your 
Horaces, and Ovids, and Virgils, as far as I know of them, all 
thought ill of us, as all the heroes they wrote about used us 
basely. We were bred to be slaves always *, and even of our 
own times, as you are still the only lawgivers, I think our 
sermons seem to say that the best woman is she who bears her 
master’s chains most gracefully. ’Tis a pity there are no nun- 
neries permitted by our Church : Beatrix and I would fly to 
one and end our days in peace there away from you.” 

“ And is there no slavery in a convent ? ” says Esmond. 

“ At least if women are slaves there, no one sees them,” 
answered the lady. “ They don’t work in street gangs with 
the public to jeer them : and if they suffer, suffer in private. 
Here comes my Lord home from hunting. Take away the 
books. My Lord does not love to see them. Lessons are over 
for to-day, Mr Tutor.” And with a curtsey and a smile she 
would end this sort of colloquy. 

Indeed “Mr Tutor,” as my Lady called Esmond, had now 
business enough on his hands in Castlewood House. He had 
three pupils, his lady and her two children, at whose lessons 
she would always be present; besides writing my Lord’s 
letters, and arranging his accompts for him — when these could 
be got from Esmond’s indolent patron. 

Of the pupils the two young people were but lazy scholars, 
and as my Lady would admit no discipline such as was then in 
use, my Lord’s son only learned what he liked, which was but 
little, and never to his life’s end could be got to construe more 
than six lines of Virgil. Mistress Beatrix chattered French 
prettily, from a very early age ; and sang sweetly, but this was 
from her mother’s teaching — not Harry Esmond’s, who could 
scarce distinguish between “ Green Sleeves ” and “ Lillibul- 
lero ; ” although he had no greater delight in life than to hear 
the ladies sing. He sees them now (will he ever forget them?) 


91 


Henry Esmond 


as they used to sit together of the summer evenings — the two 
golden heads over the page — the child’s little hand and the 
mother’s beating the time, with their voices rising and falling 
in unison. 

But if the children were careless, ’twas a wonder how 
eagerly the mother learnt from her young tutor — and taught 
him too. The happiest instinctive faculty was this lady’s — 
a faculty for discerning latent beauties and hidden .'graces of 
books, especially books of poetry, as in a walk she would spy 
out field-flowers and make posies of them, such as no other 
hand could. She was a critic, not by reason but by feeling ; 
the sweetest commentator of those books they read together ; 
and the happiest hours of young Esmond’s life, perhaps, were 
those passed in the company of this kind mistress and her 
children. 

These happy days were to end soon, however ; and it was 
by the Lady Castlewood’s own decree that they were brought 
to a conclusion. It happened about Christmas-time, Harry 
Esmond being now past sixteen years of age, that his old com- 
rade, adversary and friend, Tom Tusher, returned from his 
school in London, a fair, well-grown, and sturdy lad, who was 
about to enter college, with an exhibition from his school, and 
a prospect of after promotion in the Church. Tom Tusher’s 
talk was of nothing but Cambridge now ; and the boys, who 
were good friends, examined each other eagerly about their 
progress in books. Tom had learned some Greek and Hebrew, 
besides Latin, in which he was pretty well skilled, and also 
had given himself to mathematical studies under his father’s 
guidance, who was a proficient in those sciences, of which 
Esmond knew nothing ; nor could he write Latin so well as 
Tom, though he could talk it better, having been taught by 
his dear friend the Jesuit Father, for whose memory the lad 
ever retained the warmest affection, reading his books, keeping 
his swords clean in the little crypt where the Father had shown 
them to Esmond on the night of his visit; and often of a night 
sitting in the chaplain’s room, which he inhabited, over his 
books, his verses, and rubbish, with which the lad occupied 
himself, he would look up at the window, thinking he wished 
it might open and let in the good Father. He had come and 


92 


The History of 

passed away like a dream ; but for the swords and books 
Harry might almost think the Father was an imagination of his 
mind — and for two letters which had come to him, one from 
abroad full of advice and affection, another soon after he had 
been confirmed by the Bishop of Hexton, in which Father 
Holt deplored his falling away. But Harry Esmond felt so 
confident now of his being in the right, and of his own powers 
as a casuist, that he thought he was able to face the Father 
himself in argument, and possibly convert him. 

To work upon the faith of her young pupil, Esmond’s kind 
mistress sent to the library of her father the Dean, who had 
been distinguished in the disputes of the late King’s reign; and, 
an old soldier now, had hung up his weapons of controversy. 
These he took down from his shelves willingly for young 
Esmond, whom he benefited by his own personal advice and 
instruction. It did not require much persuasion to induce the 
boy to worship with his beloved mistress. And the good old 
nonjuring Dean flattered himself with a conversion which, in 
truth, was owing to a much gentler and fairer persuader. 

Under her Ladyship’s kind eyes (my Lord’s being sealed in 
sleep pretty generally) Esmond read many volumes of the works 
of the famous British divines of the last age, and was familiar 
with Wake and Sherlock, with Stillingfleet and Patrick. His 
mistress never tired to listen or to read, to pursue the texts 
with fond comments, to urge those points which her fancy 
dwelt on most, or her reason deemed most important. Since 
the death of her father the Dean, this lady had admitted a 
certain latitude of theological reading which her orthodox 
father would never have allowed ; his favourite writers appeal- 
ing more to reason and antiquity than to the passions or imagi- 
nations of their readers, so that the works of Bishop Taylor, 
nay, those of Mr Baxter and Mr Law, have in reality found 
more favour with my Lady Castlewood than the severer 
volumes of our great English schoolmen. 

In later life, at the University, Esmond reopened the con- 
troversy, and pursued it in a very different manner, when his 
patrons had determined for him that he was to embrace the 
ecclesiastical life. But though his mistress’ heart was in this 
calling, his own never was much. After that first fervour of 


93 


Henry Esmond 

simple devotion, which his beloved Jesuit priest had inspired in 
him, speculative theology took but little hold upon the young 
man’s mind. When his early credulity was disturbed, and his 
saints and virgins taken out of his worship, to rank little higher 
than the divinities of Olympus, his belief became acquiescence 
rather than ardour ; and he made his mind up to assume the 
cassock and bands, as another man does to wear a breastplate 
and jackboots, or to mount a merchant’s desk, for a livelihood, 
and from obedience and necessity, rather than from choice. 
There were scores of such men in Mr Esmond’s time at the 
universities, who were going to the Church with no better 
calling than his. 

When Thomas Tusher was gone, a feeling of no small 
depression and disquiet fell upon young Esmond, of which, 
though he did not complain, his kind mistress must have 
divined the cause : for soon after she showed not only that 
she understood the reason of Harry’s melancholy, but could 
provide a remedy for it. Her habit was thus to watch, un- 
observedly, those to whom duty or affection bound her, and 
to prevent their designs, or to fulfil them, when she had the 
power. It was this lady’s disposition to think kindnesses, and 
devise silent bounties, and to scheme benevolence, for those 
about her. We take such goodness, for the most part, as if it 
was our due ; the Marys who bring ointment for our feet get 
but little thanks. Some of us never feel this devotion at all, 
or are moved by it to gratitude or acknowledgment ; others 
only recall it years after, when the days are past in which 
those sweet kindnesses were spent on us, and we offer back 
our return for the debt by a poor tardy payment of tears. 
Then forgotten tones of love recur to us, and kind glances 
shine out of the past — oh, so bright and clear ! — oh, so longed 
after ! — because they are out of reach ; as holiday music from 
within-side a prison wall — or sunshine seen through the bars ; 
more prized because unattainable — more bright because of the 
contrast of present darkness and solitude, whence there is no 
escape. 

All the notice, then, which Lady Castlewood seemed to take 
of Harry Esmond’s melancholy, upon Tom Tusher’s departure, 
was, by a gaiety unusual to her, to attempt to dispel his gloom. 


94 


The History of 

She made his three scholars (herself being the chief one) more 
cheerful than ever they had been before, and more docile, too, 
all of them learning and reading much more than they had 
been accustomed to do. “ For who knows,” said the lady, 
“ what may happen, and whether we may be able to keep such 
a learned tutor long ? ” 

Frank Esmond said he for his part did not want to learn any 
more, and cousin Harry might shut up his book whenever he 
liked, if he would come out a-fishing ; and little Beatrix 
declared she would send for Tom Tusher and he would be 
glad enough to come to Castlewood, if Harry chose to go 
away. 

At last comes a messenger from Winchester one day, bearer 
of a letter, with a great black seal, from the Dean there, to say 
that his sister was dead, and had left her fortune of £1000 
among her six nieces, the Dean’s daughters ; and many a time 
since has Harry Esmond recalled the flushed face and eager 
look wherewith, after this intelligence, his kind lady regarded 
him. She did not pretend to any grief about the deceased 
relative, from whom she and her family had been many years 
parted. 

When my Lord heard of the news, he also did not make any 
very long face. “ The money will come very handy to furnish 
the music-room and the cellar, which is getting low, and buy 
your ladyship a coach and a couple of horses, that will do 
indifferent to ride or for the coach. And Beatrix, you shall 
have a spinnet ; and Frank, you shall have a little horse from 
Hexton Fair; and Harry, you shall have five pounds to buy 
some books,” said my Lord, who was generous with his own, 
and indeed with other folks’ money. ‘‘ I wish your aunt 
would die once a year, Rachel ; we could spend your money, 
and all your sisters’, too.” 

“ I have but one aunt — and — and I have another use for the 
money, my Lord,” says my Lady, turning very red. 

“ Another use, my dear ; and what do you know about 
money ? ” cries my Lord. “ And what the devil is there that 
I don’t give you which you want ? ” 

‘T intend to give this money — can’t you fancy how, my 
Lord ? ” 


Henry Esmond 95 

My Lord swore one of his large oaths that he did not know 
in the least what she meant. 

** I intend it for Harry Esmond to go to college. Cousin 
Harry,” says my Lady, ‘‘you mustn’t stay longer in this dull 
place, but make a name to yourself, and for us, too, Harry.” 

“ D it, Harry’s well enough here,” says my Lord, for a 

moment looking rather sulky. 

“ Is Harry going away ? You don’t mean to say you will 
go away ? ” cried out Frank and Beatrix at one breath. 

“ But he will come back: and this will always be his home,” 
cries my Lady, with blue eyes looking a celestial kindness : 
“ and his scholars will always love him ; won’t they ?” 

“ By G — , Rachel, you’re a good woman ! ” says my Lord, 
seizing my Lady’s hand, at which she blushed very much, and 
shrank back, putting her children before her. “ I wish you 
joy, my kinsman,” he continued, giving Harry Esmond a hearty 
slap on the shoulder. “ I won’t balk your luck. Go to 
Cambridge, boy ; and when Tusher dies you shall have the 
living here, if you are not better provided by that time. We’ll 
furnish the dining-room and buy the horses another year. I’ll 
give thee a nag out of the stable : take any one except my 
hack and the bay gelding and the coach horses ; and God 
speed thee, my boy ! ” 

“ Have the sorrel, Harry ; ’tis a good one. Father says ’tis 
the best in the stable,” says little Frank, clapping his hands, 
and jumping up. “ Let’s come and see him in the stable.” 
And the other, in his delight and eagerness, was for leaving 
the room that instant to arrange about his journey. 

The Lady Castlewood looked after him with sad penetrating 
glances. “ He wishes to be gone already, my Lord,” said she 
to her husband. 

The young man hung back abashed. “Indeed, I would 
stay for ever, if your Ladyship bade me,” he said. 

“ And thou wouldst be a fool for thy pains, kinsman,” said 
my Lord. “Tut, tut, man. Go and see the world. Sow 
thy wild oats ; and take the best luck that Fate sends thee. I 
wish I were a boy again, that I might go to college, and taste 
the Trumpington ale.” 

“ Ours, indeed, is but a dull home,” cries my Lady, with a 


g6 The History of 

little of sadness, and, maybe, of satire, in her voice : ‘‘ an old 
glum house, half-ruined, and the rest only half furnished ; a 
woman and two children are but poor company for men that 
are accustomed to better. We are only fit to be your worship’s 
handmaids, and your pleasures must of necessity lie elsewhere 
than at home.” 

Curse me, Rachel, if I know now whether thou art in 
earnest or not,” said my Lord. 

“In earnest, my Lord!” says she, still clinging by one 
of her children. “Is there much subject here for joke?” 
And she made him a grand curtsey, and, giving a stately look 
to Harry Esmond, which seemed to say, “ Remember ; you 
understand me, though he does not,” she left the room with 
her children. 

“ Since she found out that confounded Hexton business,” 
my Lord said — “and be hanged to them that told her ! — she 
has not been the same woman. She, who used to be as 
humble as a milkmaid, is as proud as a princess,” says my 
Lord. “ Take my counsel, Harry Esmond, and keep clear 
of women. Since I have had anything to do with the jades, 
they have given me nothing but disgust. I had a wife at 
Tangier, with whom, as she couldn’t speak a word of my 
language, you’d have thought I might lead a quiet life. But 
she tried to poison me, because she was jealous of a Jew girl. 
There was your aunt, for aunt she is — Aunt Jezebel, a pretty 
life your father led with ^er ! And here’s my Lady. When 
I saw her on a pillion riding behind the Dean her father, she 
looked and was such a baby, that a sixpenny doll might have 
pleased her. And now you see what she is — hands off, highty- 
tighty, high and mighty, an empress couldn’t be grander. Pass 
us the tankard, Harry, my boy. A mug of beer and a toast at 
morn, says my host. A toast and a mug of beer at noon, says 

my dear. D it, Polly loves a mug of ale, too, and laced 

with brandy, by Jove ! ” Indeed, I suppose they drank it 
together ; for my Lord was often thick in his speech at mid- 
day dinner ; and at night, at supper, speechless altogether. 

Harry Esmond’s departure resolved upon, it seemed as if the 
Lady Castlewood, too, rejoiced to lose him; for more than 
once, when the lad, ashamed perhaps at his own secret eager- 


97 


Henry Esmond 

ness to go away (at any rate stricken with sadness at the idea 
of leaving those from whom he had received so many proofs of 
love and kindness inestimable), tried to express to his mistress 
his sense of gratitude to her, and his sorrow at quitting those 
who had so sheltered and tended a nameless and houseless 
orphan. Lady Castlewood cut short his protests of love and his 
lamentations, and would hear of no grief, but only look for- 
ward to Harry’s fame and prospects in life. ** Our little 
legacy will keep you for four years like a gentleman. 
Heaven’s Providence, your own genius, industry, honour, 
must do the rest for you. Castlewood will always be a 
home for you ; and these children whom you have taught 
and loved, will not forget to love you. And, Harry,” said 
she (and this was the only time when she spoke with a tear 
in her eye, or a tremor in her voice), it may happen in the 
course of nature that I shall be called away from them ; and 
their father — and — and they will need true friends and pro- 
tectors. Promise me that you will be true to them — as — as 
I think I have been to you — and a mother’s fond prayer and 
blessing go with you.” 

“ So help me God, madam, I will,” said Harry Esmond, 
falling on his knees, and kissing the hand of his dearest 
mistress. “ If you will have me stay now, I will. What 
matters whether or no I make my way in life, or whether 
a poor bastard dies as unknown as he is now ? ’Tis enough 
that I have your love and kindness surely ; and to make you 
happy is duty enough for me.” 

Happy!” says she; ‘‘but indeed I ought to be, with 
my children, and ” 

“ Not happy I ” cried Esmond (for he knew what her 
life was, though he and his mistress never spoke a word 
concerning it). “ If not happiness, it may be ease. Let 
me stay and work for you — let me stay and be your 
servant.” 

“Indeed, you are best away,” said my Lady, laughing, 
as she put her hand on the boy’s head for a moment. “ You 
shall stay in no such dull place. You shall go to college and 
distinguish yourself as becomes your name. That is how you 
shall please me best ; and — and if my children want you, or I 

G 


98 The History of 

want you, you shall come to us ; and I know we may count 
on you. 

‘‘ May Heaven forsake me if you may not ! ” Harry said, 
getting up from his knee. 

“ And my knight longs for a dragon this instant that he 
may fight,” said my Lady, laughing; which speech made 
Harry Esmond start, and turn red ; for indeed the very 
thought was in his mind, that he would like that some chance 
should immediately happen whereby he might show his de- 
votion. And it pleased him to think that his lady had called 
him “her knight,” and often and often he recalled this to 
his mind, and prayed that he might be her true knight, 
too. 

My Lady’s bedchamber window looked out over the country, 
and you could see from it the purple hills beyond Castlewood 
village, the green common betwixt that and the Hall, and the 
old bridge which crossed over the river. When Harry Esmond 
went away for Cambridge, little Frank ran alongside his horse 
as far as the bridge, and there Harry stopped for a moment, 
and looked back at the house where the best part of his life 
had been passed. It lay before him with its grey familiar 
towers, a pinnacle or two shining in the sun, the buttresses 
and terrace walls casting great blue shades on the grass. 
And Harry remembered, all his life after, how he saw his ! 
mistress at the window looking out on him in a white robe, the 
little Beatrix’s chestnut curls resting at her mother’s side. , 
Both waved a farewell to him, and little Frank sobbed to | 
leave him. Yes, he nvould be his Lady’s true knight, he vowed I 
in his heart ; he waved her an adieu with his hat. The 
village people had Good-bye to say to him too. All knew that 1 
Master Harry was going to college, and most of them had j 
a kind word and a look of farewell. I do not stop to say | 
what adventures he began to imagine, or what career to devise 
for himself before he had ridden three miles from home. He ' 
had not read Monsieur Galland’s ingenious Arabian tales as i 
yet ; but be sure that there are other folks who build castles in i 
the air, and have fine hopes, and kick them down too, besides | 
honest Alnaschar. 


Henry Esmond 


99 


Chapter X 

I go to Cambridge, and do but little Good there 

My Lord, who said he should like to revisit the old haunts 
of his youth, kindly accompanied Harry Esmond in his first 
journey to Cambridge. Their road lay through London, 
where my Lord Viscount would also have Harry stay a few 
days to show him the pleasures of the town before he entered 
upon his University studies, and whilst here Harry’s patron 
conducted the young man to my Lady Dowager’s house at 
Chelsey near London : the kind lady at Castlewood having 
specially ordered that the young gentleman and the old 
should pay a respectful visit in that quarter. 

Her Ladyship the Viscountess Dowager occupied a hand- 
some new house in Chelsey, with a garden behind it, and 
facing the river, always a bright and animated sight with its 
swarms of sailors, barges, and wherries. Harry laughed at 
recognising in the parlour the well-remembered old piece of 
Sir Peter Lely, wherein his father’s widow was represented as 
a virgin huntress, armed with a gilt bow-and-arrow, and en- 
cumbered only with that small quantity of drapery which it 
would seem the virgins in King Charles’s day were accustomed 
to wear. 

My lady Dowager had left off this peculiar habit of hunt- 
ress when she married. But though she was now considerably 
past sixty years of age, I believe she thought that airy nymph 
of the picture could still be easily recognised in the venerable 
personage who gave an audience to Harry and his patron. 

She received the young man with even more favour than she 
showed to the elder, for she chose to carry on the conversation 
in French, in which my Lord Castlewood was no great pro- 
ficient, and expressed her satisfaction at finding that Mr 
Esmond could speak fluently in that language. “’Twasthe 
only one fit for polite conversation,” she condescended to say, 
“ and suitable to persons of high breeding.” 

My Lord laughed afterwards, as the gentlemen went away, 
at his kinswoman’s behaviour. He said he remembered the 


lOO 


The History of 

time when she could speak English fast enough, and joked in 
his jolly way at the loss he had had of such a lovely wife as 
that. 

My Lady Viscountess deigned to ask his Lordship news of 
his wife and children : she had heard that Lady Castlewood 
■ had had the small-pox ; she hoped she was not so very much 
disfigured as people said. 

At this remark about his wife’s malady, my Lord Viscount 
winced and turned red ; but the Dowager, in speaking of the 
disfigurement of the young lady, turned to her looking-glass 
and examined her old wrinkled countenance in it with such a 
grin of satisfaction, that it was all her guests could do to 
refrain from laughing in her ancient face. 

She asked Harry what his profession was to be ; and my 
Lord, saying that the lad was to take orders, and have the 
living of Castlewood when old Doctor Tusher vacated it, she 
did not seem to show any particular anger at the notion of 
Harry’s becoming a Church of England clergyman, nay, was 
rather glad than otherwise that the youth should be so pro- 
vided for. She bade Mr Esmond not to forget to pay her a 
visit whenever he passed through London, and carried her 
graciousness so far as to send a purse with twenty guineas for 
him, to the tavern at which my Lord put up (the “ Grey- 
hound,” in Charing Cross) ; and, along with this welcome 
gift for her kinsman, she sent a little doll for a present to my 
Lord’s little daughter Beatrix, who was growing beyond the 
age of dolls by this time, and was as tall almost as her vener- 
able relative. 

After seeing the town, and going to the plays, my Lord 
Castlewood and Esmond rode together to Cambridge, spend- 
ing two pleasant days upon the journey. Those rapid new 
coaches were not established, as yet, that performed the whole 
journey between London and the University in a single day ; 
however, the road was pleasant and short enough to Harry 
Esmond, and he always gratefully remembered that happy 
holiday which his kind patron gave him. 

Mr Esmond was entered a pensioner of Trinity College in 
Cambridge, to which famous college my Lord had also in his 
youth belonged. Doctor Montague was master at this time, 


lOI 


Henry Esmond 

and received my Lord Viscount with great politeness : so did 
Mr Bridge, who was appointed to be Harry’s tutor. Tom 
Tusher, who was of Emanuel College, and was by this time a 
junior soph, came to wait upon my Lord, and to take Harry 
under his protection ; and comfortable rooms being provided 
for him in the great court close by the gate, and near to the 
famous Mr Newton’s lodgings, Harry’s patron took leave of 
him with many kind words and blessings, and an admonition 
to him to behave better at the University than my Lord himself 
had ever done. 

’Tis needless in these memoirs to go at any length into the 
particulars of Harry Esmond’s college career. It was like that 
of a hundred young gentlemen of that day. But he had the 
ill-fortune to be older by a couple of years than most of his 
fellow-students ; and by his previous solitary mode of bringing 
up, the circumstances of his life, and the peculiar thoughtful- 
ness and melancholy that had naturally engendered, he was, in 
a great measure, cut off from the society of comrades who were 
much younger and higher-spirited than he. His tutor, who 
had bowed down to the ground, as he walked my Lord over 
the college grass-plats, changed his behaviour as soon as the 
nobleman’s back was turned, and was — at least Harry thought 
so — harsh and overbearing. When the lads used to assemble 
in their greges in hall, Harry found himself alone in the midst 
of that little flock of boys ; they raised a great laugh at him 
when he was set on to read Latin, which he did with the 
foreign pronunciation taught to him by his old master, the 
Jesuit, than which he knew no other. Mr Bridge, the tutor, 
made him the object of clumsy jokes, in which he was fond of 
indulging. The young man’s spirit was chafed, and his vanity 
mortified ; and he found himself, for some time, as lonely in 
this place as ever he had been at Castle wood, whither he longed 
to return. His birth was a source of shame to him, and he 
fancied a hundred slights and sneers from young and old, who, 
no doubt, had treated him better had he met them himself 
more frankly. And as he looks back, in calmer days, upon 
this period of his life, which he thought so unhappy, he can 
see that his own pride and vanity caused no small part of the 
mortifications which he attributed to others’ ill-will. The 


102 


The History of 

world deals good-naturedly with good-natured people, and I 
never knew a sulky misanthropist who quarrelled with it, but 
it was he, and not it, that was in the wrong. Tom Tusher 
gave Harry plenty of good advice on this subject, for Tom 
had both good sense and good humour ; but Mr Harry chose 
to treat his senior with a great deal of superfluous disdain and 
absurd scorn, and would by no means part from his darling 
injuries, in which very likely, no man believed but himself. 
As for honest Doctor Bridge, the tutor found, after a few 
trials of wit with the pupil, that the young man was an ugly 
subject for wit, and that the laugh was often turned against 
him. This did not make tutor and pupil any better friends ; 
but had, so far, an advantage for Esmond, that Mr Bridge was 
induced to leave him alone ; and so long as he kept his chapels, 
and did the college exercises required of him. Bridge was 
content not to see Harry’s glum face in his class, and to 
leave him to read and sulk for himself in his own chamber. 

A poem or two in Latin and English, which were pronounced 
to have some merit, and a Latin oration (for Mr Esmond could 
write that language better than pronounce it), got him a little 
reputation both with the authorities of the University and 
amongst the young men, with whom he began to pass for more 
than he was worth. A few victories over their common enemy, 
Mr Bridge, made them incline towards him, and look upon 
him as the champion of their order against the seniors. Such 
of the lads as he took into his confidence found him not so 
gloomy and haughty as his appearance led them to believe ; 
and Don Dismallo, as he was called, became presently a person 
of some little importance in his college, and was, as he believes, 
set down by the seniors there as rather a dangerous character. 

Don Dismallo was a staunch young Jacobite, like the rest of 
his family ; gave himself many absurd airs of loyalty ; used to 
invite young friends to Burgundy, and give the King’s health 
on King James’s birthday *, wore black on the day of his abdi- 
cation ; fasted on the anniversary of King William’s coronation ; 
and performed a thousand absurd antics, of which he smiles now 
to think. 

These follies caused many remonstrances on Tom Tusher’s 
part, who was always a friend to the powers that be, as Esmond 


Henry Esmond 103 

was always in opposition to them. Tom was a Whig, while 
Esmond was a Tory. Tom never missed a lecture, and capped 
the proctor with the profoundest of bows. No wonder he 
sighed over Harry’s insubordinate courses, and was angry 
when the others laughed at him. But that Harry was known 
to have my Lord Viscount’s protection, Tom no doubt would 
have broken with him altogether. But honest Tom never 
gave up a comrade as long as he was the friend of a great 
man. This was not out of scheming on Tom’s part, but a 
natural inclination towards the great. ’Twas no hypocrisy in 
him to flatter, but the bent of his mind, which was always 
perfectly good-humoured, obliging, and servile. 

Harry had very liberal allowances, for his dear mistress of 
Casdewood not only regularly supplied him, but the Dowager 
of Chelsey made her donation annual, and received Esmond 
at her house near London every Christmas ; but, in spite of 
these benefactions, Esmond was constantly poor ; whilst ’twas 
a wonder with how small a stipend from his father Tom 
Tusher contrived to make a good figure. ’Tis true that 
Harry both spent, gave, and lent his money very freely, which 
Thomas never did. I think he was like the famous Duke of 
Marlborough in this instance, who, getting a present of fifty 
pieces, when a young man, from some foolish woman who fell 
in love with his good looks, showed the money to Cadogan in 
a drawer scores of years after, where it had lain ever since he 
had sold his beardless honour to procure it. I do not mean to 
say that Tom ever let out his good looks so profitably, for 
nature had not endowed him with any particular charms of 
person, and he ever was a pattern of moral behaviour, losing 
no opportunity of giving the very best advice to his younger 
comrade ; with which article, to do him justice, he parted very 
freely. Not but that he was a merry fellow, too, in his way ; 
he loved a joke, if by good fortune he understood it, and took 
his share generously of a bottle if another paid for it, and 
especially if there was a young lord in company to drink it. 
In these cases there was not a harder drinker in the University 
than Mr Tusher could be ; and it was edifying to behold him, 
fresh shaved and with smug face, singing out “ Amen ! ” at 
early chapel in the morning. In his reading, poor Harry 


104 


The History of 

permitted himself to go a-gadding after all the Nine Muses, 
and so very likely had but little favour from any one of them ; 
whereas Tom Tusher, who had no more turn for poetry than 
a ploughboy, nevertheless, by a dogged perseverance and 
obsequiousness in courting the divine Calliope, got himself a 
prize and some credit in the University, and a fellowship at 
his college, as a reward for his scholarship. In this time of 
Mr Esmond’s life, he got the little reading which he ever 
could boast of, and passed a good part of his days greedily 
devouring all the books on which he could lay hand. In 
this desultory way the works of most of the English, 
French, and Italian poets came under his eyes, and he had a 
smattering of the Spanish tongue likewise, besides the ancient 
languages, of which, at least of Latin, he was a tolerable 
master. 

Then, about midway in his University career, he fell to 
reading for the profession to which worldly prudence rather 
than inclination called him, and was perfectly bewildered in 
theological controversy. In the course of his reading (which 
was neither pursued with that seriousness nor that devout 
mind which such a study requires) the youth found himself at 
the end of one month a Papist, and was about to proclaim his 
faith ; the next month a Protestant, with Chillingworth 5 and 
the third a sceptic, with Hobbes and Bayle. Whereas honest 
Tom Tusher never permitted his mind to stray out of the 
prescribed University path, accepted the Thirty-Nine Articles 
with all his heart, and would have signed and sworn to other 
nine-and-thirty with entire obedience. Harry’s wilfulness in 
this matter, and disorderly thoughts and conversation, so 
shocked and afflicted his senior, that there grew up a coldness 
and estrangement between them, so that they became scarce 
more than mere acquaintances, from having been intimate 
friends when they came to college first. Politics ran high, 
too, at the University ; and here, also, the young men were at 
variance. Tom professed himself, albeit a High Churchman, 
a strong King William’s man ; whereas Harry brought his 
family Tory politics to college with him, to which he must 
add a dangerous admiration for Oliver Cromwell, whose side, 
or King James’s by turns, he often chose to take in the disputes 


Henry Esmond 1 05 

which the young gentlemen used to hold in each other’s rooms, 
where they debated on the state of the nation, crowned and 
deposed kings, and toasted past and present heroes and 
beauties in flagons of college ale. 

Thus, either from the circumstances of his birth, or the 
natural melancholy of his disposition, Esmond came to live very 
much by himself during his stay at the University, having 
neither ambition enough to distinguish himself in the college 
career, nor caring to mingle with the mere pleasures and 
boyish frolics of the students, who were, for the most part, 

I two or three years younger than he. He fancied that the 
gentlemen of the common-room of his college slighted him on 
account of his birth, and hence kept aloof from their society. 
It may be that he made the ill-will, which he imagined came 
from them, by his own behaviour, which, as he looks back on 
it in after-life, he now sees was morose and haughty. At any 
rate, he was as tenderly grateful for kindness as he was sus- 
ceptible of slight and wrong j and, lonely as he was generally, 
yet had one or two very warm friendships for his companions 
of those days. 

One of these was a queer gentleman that resided in the 
University, though he was no member of it, and was the pro- 
fessor of a science scarce recognised in the common course of 
college education. This was a French refugee officer, who had 
been driven out of his native country at the time of the Pro- 
testant persecutions there, and who came to Cambridge, where 
he taught the science of the small-sword, and set up a saloon- 
of-arms. Though he declared himself a Protestant, ’twas said 
Mr Moreau was a Jesuit in disguise ; indeed, he brought very 
i strong recommendations to the Tory party, which was pretty 
i strong in that University, and very likely was one of the many 
agents whom King James had in this country. Esmond found 
this gentleman’s conversation very much more agreeable and to 
his taste than the talk of the college divines in the common- 
room 5 he never wearied of Moreau’s stories of the wars of 
Turenne and Conde, in which he had borne a part j and being 
familiar with the French tongue from his youth, and in a place 
where but few spoke it, his company became very agreeable to 
the brave old professor of arms, whose favourite pupil he was, 


io6 The History of 

and who made Mr Esmond a very tolerable proficient in the 
noble science of escrime. 

At the next term Esmond was to take his degree of Bachelor 
of Arts, and afterwards, in proper season, to assume the cassock 
and bands which his fond mistress would have him wear. Tom 
Tusher himself was a parson and a fellow of his college by this 
time ; and Harry felt that he would very gladly cede his right 
to the living of Castlewood to Tom, and that his own calling 
was in no way the pulpit. But as he was bound, before all 
things in the world, to his dear mistress at home, and knew 
that a refusal on his part would grieve her, he determined to 
give her no hint of his unwillingness to the clerical office ; and 
it was in this unsatisfactory mood of mind that he went to 
spend the last vacation he should have at Castlewood before 
he took orders. 


Chapter XI 

I come home for a Holiday to Castlewood, and find a Skeleton 
in the House 

At his third long vacation, Esmond came as usual to Castle- 
wood, always feeling an eager thrill of pleasure when he found 
himself once more in the house where he had passed so many 
years, and beheld the kind familiar eyes of his mistress looking 
upon him. She and her children (out of whose company she 
scarce ever saw him) came to greet him. Miss Beatrix was 
grown so tall that Harry did not quite know whether he might 
kiss her or no ; and she blushed and held back when he offered 
that salutation, though she took it, and even courted it, when 
they were alone. The young lord was shooting up to be like 
his gallant father in look, though with his mother’s kind eyes : 
the lady of Castlewood herself seemed grown, too, since Harry 
saw her — in her look more stately, in her person fuller, in her 
face still as ever most tender and friendly, a greater air of 
command and decision than had appeared in that guileless 
sweet countenance which Harry remembered so gratefully. 
The tone of her voice was so much deeper and sadder when 


Henry Esmond T07 

she spoke and welcomed him, that it quite startled Esmond, who 
looked up at her surprised as she spoke, when she withdrew 
her eyes from him ; nor did she ever look at him afterwards 
when his own eyes were gazing upon her. A something 
hinting at grief and secret, and filling his mind with alarm, 
undefinable, seemed to speak with that low thrilling voice of 
hers, and look out of those clear sad eyes. Her greeting to 
Esmond was so cold that it almost pained the lad (who would 
have liked to fall on his knees, and kiss the skirt of her robe, 
so fond and ardent was his respect and regard for her), and he 
faltered in answering the questions which she, hesitating on 
her side, began to put to him. Was he happy at Cambridge ? 
Did he study too hard ^ She hoped not. He had grown very 
tall, and looked very well. 

“ He has got a moustache ! ” cries out Master Esmond. 

“ Why does he not wear a peruke like my Lord Mohun ? ” 
asked Miss Beatrix. “ My Lord says that nobody wears their 
own hair.” 

“ I believe you will have to occupy your old chamber,” says 
my Lady. ‘‘ I hope the housekeeper has got it ready.” 

“ Why, mamma, you have been there ten times these three 
days yourself! ” exclaims Frank. 

“ And she cut some flowers which you planted in my 
garden — do you remember, ever so many years ago ? — when 
I was quite a little girl,” cries out Miss Beatrix, on tiptoe. 
“ And mamma put them in your window.” 

‘‘ I remember when you grew well after you were ill that 
you used to like roses,” said the lady, blushing like one of 
them. They all conducted Harry Esmond to his chamber ; 
the children, running before, Harry walking by his mistress 
hand-in-hand. 

The old room had been ornamented and beautified not a 
little to receive him. The flowers were in the window in a 
china vase ; and there was a fine new counterpane on the bed, 
which chatterbox Beatrix said mamma had made too. A fire 
was crackling on the hearth, although it was June. My Lady 
thought the room wanted warming ; everything was done to 
make him happy and welcome : “ And you are not to be a 
page any longer, but a gentleman and kinsman, and to walk 


io8 The History of 

with papa and mamma,” said the children. And as soon as his 
dear mistress and children had left him to himself, it was with 
a heart overflowing with love and gratefulness that he flung 
himself down on his knees by the side of the little bed, and 
asked a blessing upon those who were so kind to him. 

The children, who are always house tell-tales, soon made 
him acquainted with the little history of the house and family. 
Papa had been to London twice. Papa often went away now. 
Papa had taken Beatrix to Westlands, where she was taller 
than Sir George Harper’s second daughter, though she was 
two years older. Papa had taken Beatrix and Frank both to 
Bellminster, where Frank had got the better of Lord Bell- 
minster’s son in a boxing-match — my Lord, laughing, told 
Harry afterwards. Many gentlemen came to stop with papa, 
and papa had gotten a new game from London, a French 
game, called a billiard — that the French king played it very 
well : and the Dowager Lady Castlewood had sent Miss 
Beatrix a present ; and papa had gotten a new chaise, with 
two little horses, which he drove himself, beside the coach 
which mamma went in-, and Doctor Tusher was a cross old 
plague, and they did not like to learn from him at all ; and 
papa did not care about them learning, and laughed when they 
were at their books, but mamma liked them to learn, and 
taught them ; and “ I don’t think papa is fond of mamma,” 
said Miss Beatrix, with her great eyes. She had come quite 
close up to Harry Esmond by the time this prattle took place, 
and was on his knee, and had examined all the points of his 
dress, and all the good or bad features of his homely face. 

‘‘ You shouldn’t say that papa is not fond of mamma,” said 
the boy, at this confession. ‘‘ Mamma never said so ; and 
mamma forbade you to say it. Miss Beatrix.” 

’Twas this, no doubt, that accounted for the sadness in 
Lady Castlewood’s eyes, and the plaintive vibrations of her 
voice. Who does not know of eyes, lighted by love once, 
where the flame shines no more ! — of lamps extinguished, 
once properly trimmed and tended ? Every man has such in 
his house. Such mementoes make our splendidest chambers 
look blank and sad ; such faces seen in a day cast a gloom 
upon our sunshine. So oaths mutually sworn, and invocations 


Henry Esmond 109 

of Heaven, and priestly ceremonies, and fond belief, and love, 
so fond and faithful that it never doubted but that it should 
live for ever, are all of no avail towards making love eternal : 
it dies, in spite of the banns and the priest : and I have often 
thought there should be a visitation of the sick for it, and a 
funeral service, and an extreme unction, and an ahi in pace. 
It has its course, like all mortal things — its beginning, pro- 
gress, and decay. It buds and it blooms out into sunshine, 
and it withers and ends. Strephon and Chloe languish apart ; 
join in a rapture : and presently you hear that Chloe is crying, 
and Strephon has broken his crook across her back. Can you 
mend it so as to show no marks of rupture ? Not all the 
priests of Hymen, not all the incantations to the gods, can 
make it whole ! 

Waking up from dreams, books, and visions of college 
honours, in which for two years Harry Esmond had been 
immersed, he found himself, instantly, on his return home, in 
the midst of this actual tragedy of life, which absorbed and 
interested him more than all his tutor had taught him. The 
persons whom he loved best in the world, and to whom 
he owed most, were living unhappily together. The gentlest 
and kindest of women was suffering ill-usage and shedding 
tears in secret : the man who made her wretched by neglect, 
if not by violence, was Harry’s benefactor and patron. In 
houses where, in place of that sacred, inmost flame of love, 
there is discord at the centre, the whole household becomes 
hypocritical, and each lies to his neighbour. The husband (or 
it may be the wife) lies when the visitor comes in, and wears 
a grin of reconciliation or politeness before him. The wife 
lies (indeed her business is to do that, and to smile, however 
much she is beaten), swallows her tears, and lies to her lord 
and master; lies in bidding little Jackey respect dear papa; 
lies in assuring grandpapa that she is perfectly happy. The 
servants lie, wearing grave faces behind their master’s chair, 
and pretending to be unconscious of the fighting ; and so, 
from morning till bed-time, life is passed in falsehood. And 
wiseacres call this a proper regard of morals, and point out 
Baucis and Philemon as examples of a good life. 

If my Lady did not speak of her griefs to Harry Esmond, 


lo The History of l 

my Lord was by no means reserved when in his cups, and | 
spoke his mind very freely, bidding Harry in his coarse way, | 
and with his blunt language, beware of all women as cheats, j 
jades, jilts, and using other unmistakable monosyllables in 
speaking of them. Indeed, ’twas the fashion of the day, as I | 
must own ; and there’s not a writer of my time of any note, 
with the exception of poor Dick Steele, that does not speak of ; 
a woman as of a slave, and scorn and use her as such. Mr ' 
Pope, Mr Congreve, Mr Addison, Mr Gay, every one of ’em, 
sing in this key, each according to his nature and politeness, 
and louder and fouler than all in abuse is Doctor Swift, who 
spoke of them, as he treated them, worst of all. 

Much of the quarrels and hatred which arise between married 
people come in my mind from the husband’s rage and revolt at 
discovering that his slave and bedfellow, who is to minister to 
all his wishes, and is church-sworn to honour and obey him — 
is his superior ; and that he, and not she, ought to be the 
subordinate of the twain : and in these controversies, I think, 
lay the cause of my Lord’s anger against his lady. When he 
left her, she began to think for herself, and her thoughts were 
not in his favour. After the illumination, when the love-lamp 
is put out that anon we spoke of, and by the common daylight 
we look at the picture, what a daub it looks ! what a clumsy 
effigy ! How many men and wives come to this knowledge, 
think you } And if it be painful to a woman to find herself 
mated for life to a boor, and ordered to love and honour a 
dullard ; it is worse still for the man himself perhaps, when- 
ever in his dim comprehension the idea dawns that his slave 
and drudge yonder is, in truth, his superior ; that the woman 
who does his bidding, and submits to his humour, should be 
his lord ; that she can think a thousand things beyond the 
power of his muddled brains ; and that in yonder head, on the 
pillow opposite to him, lie a thousand feelings, mysteries of 
thought, latent scorns and rebellions, whereof he only dimly 
perceives the existence as they look out furtively from her 
eyes : treasures of love doomed to perish without a hand to 
gather them ; sweet fancies and images of beauty that would 
grow and unfold themselves into flower ; bright wit that would 
shine like diamonds could it be brought into the sun ; and the 


Henry Esmond 1 1 1 

tyrant in possession crushes the outbreak of all these, drives 
them back like slaves into the dungeon and darkness, and 
chafes without that his prisoner is rebellious, and his sworn 
subject undutiful and refractory. So the lamp was out in 
Castlewood Hall, and the lord and lady there saw each other 
as they were. With her illness and altered beauty my Lord’s 
fire for his wife disappeared ; with his selfishness and faith- 
lessness her foolish fiction of love and reverence was rent 
away. Love ! — who is to love what is base and unlovely ? 
Respect ! — who is to respect what is gross and sensual Not 
all the marriage oaths sworn before all the parsons, cardinals, 
ministers, muftis, and rabbins in the world, can bind to that 
monstrous allegiance. This couple was living apart then ; 
the woman happy to be allowed to love and tend her children 
(who were never of her own goodwill away from her), and 
thankful to have saved such treasures as these out of the 
wreck in which the better part of her heart went down. 

These young ones had had no instructors save their mother, 
and Doctor Tusher for their theology occasionally, and had 
made more progress than might have been expected under a 
tutor so indulgent and fond as Lady Castlewood. Beatrix 
could sing and dance like a nymph. Her voice was her father’s 
delight after dinner. She ruled over the house with little 
imperial ways, which her parents coaxed and laughed at. She 
had long learned the value of her bright eyes, and tried ex- 
periments in coquetry, in corpore vili, upon rustics and country 
squires, until she should prepare to conquer the world and the 
fashion. She put on a new ribbon to welcome Harry Esmond, 

■ made eyes at him, and directed her young smiles at him, not 
I a little to the amusement of the young man, and the joy of her 
I father, who laughed his great laugh, and encouraged her in her 
thousand antics. Lady Castlewood watched the child gravely 
i and sadly : the little one was pert in her replies to her mother, 
yet eager in her protestations of love and promises of amend- 
ment ; and as ready to cry (after a little quarrel brought on 
by her own giddiness) until she had won back her mamma’s 
favour, as she was to risk the kind lady’s displeasure by fresh 
outbreaks of restless vanity. From her mother’s sad looks she 
' fled. to her father’s chair and boozy laughter. She already set 


I 12 


The History of i 

the one against the other : and the little rogue delighted in i 
the mischief which she knew how to make so early. , 

The young heir of Castlewood was spoiled by father and j 
mother both. He took their caresses as men do, and as if they ; 
were his right. He had his hawks and his spaniel dog, his * 
little horse and his beagles. He had learned to ride, and to 
drink, and to shoot flying : and he had a small court, the sons ! 
of the huntsman and woodman, as became the heir-apparent, 
taking after the example of my Lord his father. If he had 
a headache, his mother was as much frightened as if the plague 
were in the house : my Lord laughed and jeered in his abrupt 
way — (indeed, ’twas on the day after New Year’s Day, and an 
excess of mincepie) — and said with some of his usual oaths, 
‘‘D — — it, Harry Esmond — you see how my Lady takes on 
about Frank’s megrim. She used to be sorry about me, my 
boy (pass the tankard, Harry), and to be frightened if I had a 
headache once. She don’t care about my head now. They’re 
like that — women are — all the same, Harry, all jilts in their 
hearts. Stick to college — stick to punch and buttery ale : and 
never see a woman that’s handsomer than an old cinder-faced 
bedmaker. That’s my counsel.” 

It was my Lord’s custom to fling out many jokes of this 
nature, in presence of his wife and children, at meals — clumsy 
sarcasms which my Lady turned many a time, or which, some- 
times she affected not to hear, or which now and again would 
hit their mark and make the poor victim wince (as you could 
see by her flushing face and eyes filling with tears), or which 
again worked her up to anger and retort, when, in answer to 
one of these heavy bolts, she would flash back with a quiver- 
ing reply. The pair were not happy ; nor indeed was it happy 
to be with them. Alas that youthful love and truth should 
end in bitterness and bankruptcy ! To see a young couple 
loving each other is no wonder; but to see an old couple 
loving each other is the best sight of all. Harry Esmond 
became the confidant of one and the other — that is, my Lord 
told the lad all his griefs and wrongs (which were indeed of 
Lord Castlewood’s own making), and Harry divined my Lady’s ; 
his affection leading him easily to penetrate the hypocrisy 
under which Lady Castlewood generally chose to go disguised, 


Henry Esmond 1 1 3 

and see her heart aching whilst her face wore a smile. *Tis 
a hard task for women in life, that mask which the world bids 
them wear. But there is no greater crime than for a woman 
who is ill-used and unhappy to show that she is so. The 
world is quite relentless about bidding her to keep a cheerful 
face ; and our women, like the Malabar wives, are forced to 
go smiling and painted to sacrifice themselves with their 
husbands ; their relations being the most eager to push them 
on to their duty, and, under their shouts and applauses, to 
smother and hush their cries of pain. 

So, into the sad secret of his patron’s household, Harry 
Esmond became initiated, he scarce knew how. It had passed 
under his eyes two years before, when he could not under- 
stand it j but reading, and thought, and experience of men, 
had oldened him ; and one of the deepest sorrows of a life 
which had never, in truth, been very happy, came upon him 
now, when he was compelled to understand and pity a grief 
which he stood quite powerless to relieve. 

It hath been said my Lord would never take the oath of 
allegiance, nor his seat as a peer of the kingdom of Ireland, 
where, indeed, he had but a nominal estate; and refused 
an English peerage which King William’s government offered 
him as a bribe to secure his loyalty. 

He might have accepted this, and would, doubtless, but for 
the earnest remonstrances of his wife, who ruled her husband’s 
: opinions better than she could govern his conduct, and who, 

I being a simple-hearted woman, with but one rule of faith and 
I right, never thought of swerving from her fidelity to the 
I exiled family, or of recognising any other sovereign but King 
! James; and though she acquiesced in the doctrine of obedience 
to the reigning power, no temptation, she thought, could 
induce her to acknowledge the Prince of Orange as rightful 
monarch, nor to let her lord so acknowledge him. So my 
Lord Castle wood remained a nonjuror all his life nearly, 
though his self-denial caused him many a pang, and left 
him sulky and out of humour. 

The year after the Revolution, and all through King 
William’s life, ’tis known there were constant intrigues for 

H 


1 14 The History of 

the restoration of the exiled family ; but if my Lord Castle- ' 
wood took any share of these, as is probable, ’twas only for 
a short time, and when Harry Esmond was too young to be ; 
introduced into such important secrets. 

But in the year 1695, when that conspiracy of Sir John 
Fenwick, Colonel Lowick, and others, was set on foot, for way- 
laying King William as he came from Hampton Court to Lon- ‘ 
don, and a secret plot was formed, in which a vast number of 
the nobility and people of honour were engaged. Father Holt ' 
appeared at Castlewood, and brought a young friend with him, j 
a gentleman whom ’twas easy to see that both my Lord and the 
Father treated with uncommon deference. Harry Esmond saw | 
this gentleman, and knew and recognised him in after life, as ; 
shall be shown in its place ; and he has little doubt now that i 
my Lord Viscount was implicated somewhat in the transactions 
which always kept Father Holt employed and travelling hither 
and thither, under a dozen of different names and disguises. 
The Father’s companion went by the name of Captain James , i 
and it was under a very different name and appearance that 
Harry Esmond afterwards saw him. 

It was the next year that the Fenwick conspiracy blew up, ; 
which is a matter of public history now, and which ended in 
the execution of Sir John and many more, who suffered man- 1 
fully for their treason, and who were attended to Tyburn | 
by my Lady’s father Dean Armstrong, Mr Collier, and other 
stout nonjuring clergymen, who absolved them at the gallows- i 
foot. I 

’Tis known that when Sir John was apprehended, discovery ^ 
was made of a great number of names of gentlemen engaged * 
in the conspiracy : when, with a noble wisdom and clemency, | 
the Prince burned the list of conspirators furnished to him, and i 
said he would know no more. Now it was after this that Lord | 
Castlewood swore his great oath, that he would never, so help j 
him Heaven, be engaged in any transaction against that brave 1 
and merciful man ; and so he told Holt when the indefatigable ’ 
priest visited him, and would have had him engage in a further 
conspiracy. After this my Lord ever spoke of King William 
as he was — as one of the wisest, the bravest, and the greatest 
of men. My Lady Esmond (for her part) said she could never 


II5 


Henry Esmond 

pardon the King, first, for ousting his father-in-law from his 
throne, and, secondly, for not being constant to his wife, the 
Princess Mary. Indeed, I think if Nero were to rise again, and 
be King of England, and a good family man, the ladies would 
pardon him. My Lord laughed at his wife’s objections — the 
standard of virtue did not fit him much. 

The last conference which Mr Holt had with his Lordship 
took place when Harry was come home for his first vacation 
from college (Harry saw his old tutor but for a half-hour, 
and exchanged no private words with him), and their talk, 
whatever it might be, left my Lord Viscount very much dis- 
turbed in mind — so much so, that his wife, and his young 
kinsman, Henry Esmond, could not but observe his disquiet. 
After Holt was gone, my Lord rebuffed Esmond, and again 
treated him with the greatest deference ; he shunned his 
wife’s questions and company, and looked at his children 
with such a face of gloom and anxiety, muttering, ‘‘ Poor 
children — poor children ! ” in a way that could not but fill 
those whose life it was to watch him and obey him with 
great alarm. For which gloom, each person interested in 
the Lord Castlewood framed in his or her own mind an 
interpretation. 

My Lady, with a laugh of cruel bitterness, said, “ I suppose 
the person at Hexton has been ill, or has scolded him ” (for 
my Lord’s infatuation about Mrs Marwood was known only 
, too well). Young Esmond feared for his money affairs, into 
1 the condition of which he had been initiated ; and that the 
; expenses, always greater than his revenue, had caused Lord 
Castlewood disquiet. 

One of the causes why my Lord Viscount had taken young 
Esmond into his special favour was a trivial one, that hath not 
before been mentioned, though it was a very lucky accident 
in Henry Esmond’s life. A very few months after my Lord’s 
coming to Castlewood, in the winter time — the little boy being 
a child in a petticoat, trotting about — it happened that little 
Frank was with his father after dinner, who fell asleep over 
his wine, heedless of the child, who crawled to the fire ; and, 
as good fortune would have it, Esmond was sent by his mis- 
tress for the boy just as the poor little screaming urchin’s coat 


1 1 6 The History of 

was set on fire by a Jog ; when Esmond, rushing forward, tore 
the dress off the infant, so that his own hands were burned 
more than the child’s, who was frightened rather than hurt by 
this accident. But certainly ’twas providential that a resolute 
person should have come in at that instant, or the child had 
been burned to death probably, my Lord sleeping very heavily 
after drinking, and not waking so cool as a man should who 
had a danger to face. 

Ever after this the father, loud in his expressions of re- 
morse and humility for being a tipsy good-for-nothing, and 
of admiration for Harry Esmond, whom his Lordship would 
style a hero for doing a very trifling service, had the tenderest , 
regard for his son’s preserver, and Harry became quite as one 
of the family. His burns were tended with the greatest care ; 
by his kind mistress, who said that Heaven had sent him to be 
the guardian of her children, and that she would love him all 
her life. 

And it was after this, and from the very great love and 
tenderness which had grown up in this little household, rather 
than from the exhortations of Dean Armstrong (though these 
had no small weight with him), that Harry came to be quite of 
the religion of his house and his dear mistress, of which he has 
ever since been a professing member. As for Doctor Tusher’s 
boasts that he was the cause of this conversion — even in these 
young days Mr Esmond had such a contempt for the Doctor, 
that had Tusher bade him believe anything (which he did not 
— never meddling at all), Harry would that instant have 
questioned the truth on’t. 

My Lady seldom drank wine; but on certain days of the 
year, such as birthdays (poor Harry had never a one) and 
anniversaries, she took a little ; and this day, the 29th Decem- 
ber, was one. At the end, then, of this year, ’96, it might 
have been a fortnight after Mr Holt’s last visit. Lord 
Castlewood being still very gloomy in mind, and sitting at 
table — my Lady bidding a servant bring her a glass of 
wine, and looking at her husband with one of her sweet 
smiles, said — 

“ My Lord, will you not fill a bumper too, and let me call a 
toast ? ” 


Henry Esmond 1 1 7 

‘‘ What is it, Rachel ? ” says he, holding out his empty glass 
to be filled. 

“ ’Tis the 29th of December,” says my Lady, with her fond 
look of gratitude : and my toast is, ‘ Harry — and God bless 
him who saved my boy’s life ! ’ ” 

My Lord looked at Harry hard, and drank the glass, but 
clapped it down on the table in a moment, and, with a sort of 
groan, rose up, and went out of the room. What was the 
matter ? We all knew that some great grief was over him. 

Whether my Lord’s prudence had made him richer, or 
legacies had fallen to him, which enabled him to support a 
greater establishment than that frugal one which had been 
too much for his small means, Harry Esmond knew not ; but 
the house of Castlewood was now on a scale much more 
costly than it had been during the first years of his Lord- 
ship’s coming to the title. There were more horses in the 
stable and more servants in the hall, and many more guests 
coming and going now than formerly, when it was found 
difficult enough by the strictest economy to keep the house 
as befitted one of his Lordship’s rank, and the estate out of 
debt. And it did not require very much penetration to find 
that many of the new acquaintances at Castlewood were not 
agreeable to the lady there : not that she ever treated them or 
any mortal with anything but courtesy ; but they were persons 
who could not be welcome to her ; and whose society a lady 
so refined and reserved could scarce desire for her children. 
There came fuddling squires from the country round, who 
bawled their songs under her windows and drank themselves 
tipsy with my Lord’s punch and ale ; there came officers from 
Hexton, in whose company our little lord was made to hear 
talk and to drink, and swear too, in a way that made the 
delicate lady tremble for her son. Esmond tried to console 
her by saying, what he knew of his College experience, that 
with this sort of company and conversation a man must fall in 
sooner or later in his course through the world ; and it mattered 
very little whether he heard it at twelve years old or twenty 
— the youths who quitted mothers’ apron-strings the latest 
being not uncommonly the wildest rakes. But it was about 
her daughter that Lady Castlewood was the most anxious. 


1 1 8 The History of 

and the danger which she thought menaced the little Beatrix 
from the indulgences which her father gave her (it must be 
owned that my Lord, since these unhappy domestic differences 
especially, was at once violent in his language to the children 
when angry, as he was too familiar, not to say coarse, when he 
was in a good humour), and from the company into which the 
careless lord brought the child. 

Not very far off from Castlewood is Sark Castle, where the 
Marchioness of Sark lived, who was known to have been a 
mistress of the late King Charles — and to this house, whither 
indeed a great part of the country gentry went, my Lord in- 
sisted upon going, not only himself, but on taking his little 
daughter and son, to play with the children there. The 
children were nothing loth, for the house was splendid, and 
the welcome kind enough. But my Lady, justly no doubt, 
thought that the children of such a mother as that noted Lady 
Sark had been, could be no good company for her two ; and 
spoke her mind to her lord. His own language when he was 
thwarted was not indeed of the gentlest : to be brief, there 
was a family dispute on this, as there had been on many other 
points — and the lady was not only forced to give in, for 
the other’s will was law — nor could she, on account of their 
tender age, tell her children what was the nature of her 
objection to their visit of pleasure, or indeed mention to them 
any objection at all — but she had the additional secret mor- 
tification to find them returning delighted with their new 
friends, loaded with presents from them, and eager to be 
allowed to go back to a place of such delights as Sark Castle. 
Every year she thought the company there would be more 
dangerous to her daughter, as from a child Beatrix grew to a 
woman, and her daily increasing beauty, and many faults of 
character too, expanded. 

It was Harry Esmond’s lot to see one of the visits which 
the old lady of Sark paid to the lady of Castlewood Hall : 
whither she came in state with six chestnut horses and blue 
ribbons, a page on each carriage step, a gentleman of the 
horse, and armed servants riding before and behind her. And, 
but that it was unpleasant to see Lady Castlewood’s face, it 
was amusing to watch the behaviour of the two enemies : the 


Henry Esmond 1 1 9 

frigid patience of the younger lady, and the unconquerable 
good-humour of the elder — who would see no offence what- 
ever her rival intended, and who never ceased to smile and to 
laugh, and to coax the children, and to pay compliments to 
every man, woman, child, nay dog, or chair and table, in 
Castlewood, so bent was she upon admiring everything there. 
She lauded the children, and wished — as indeed she well 
might — that her own family had been brought up as well as 
those cherubs. She had never seen such a complexion as dear 
Beatrix’s — though to be sure she had a right to it from father 
and mother — Lady Castlewood’s was indeed a wonder of 
freshness, and Lady Sark sighed to think she had not been 
born a fair woman ; and remarking Harry Esmond, with a 
fascinating superannuated smile, she complimented him on his 
wit, which she said she could see from his eyes and forehead ; 
and vowed that she would never have him at Sark until her 
daughter were out of the way. 


Chapter XII 

My Lord Mohun comes among us for no Good 

There had ridden along with this old Princess’s cavalcade two 
gentlemen : her son my Lord Firebrace and his friend my 
Lord Mohun, who both were greeted with a great deal of 
cordiality by the hospitable Lord of Castlewood. My Lord 
Firebrace was but a feeble-minded and weak-limbed young 
' nobleman, small in stature and limited in understanding — to 
judge from the talk young Esmond had with him ; but the 
other was a person of a handsome presence, with the hel air, 
and a bright daring warlike aspect, which, according to the 
chronicle of those days, had already achieved for him the 
I conquest of several beauties and toasts. He had fought and 
conquered in France, as well as in Flanders ; he had served a 
couple of campaigns with the Prince of Baden on the Danube, 
and witnessed the rescue of Vienna from the Turk. And he 
spoke of his military exploits pleasantly, and with the manly 
! freedom of a soldier, so as to delight all his hearers at Castle- 


120 The History of ; 

wood, who were little accustomed to meet a companion so i 
agreeable. 

On the first day this noble company came, my Lord would 
not hear of their departure before dinner, and carried away 
the gentlemen to amuse them, whilst his wife was left to do ' 
the honours of her house to the old Marchioness and her 
daughter within. They looked at the stables, where my 
Lord Mohun^praised the horses, though there was but a poor 
show there ; they walked over the old house and gardens, and 
fought the siege of Oliver’s time over again : they played a 
game of rackets in the old court, where my Lord Castlewood 
beat my Lord Mohun, who said he loved ball of all things, 
and would quickly come back to Castlewood for his revenge. 
After dinner they played bowls, and drank punch in the green 
alley ; and when they parted they were sworn friends, my | 
Lord Castlewood kissing the other lord before he mounted on I 
horseback, and pronouncing him the best companion he had 
met for many a long day. All night long, over his tobacco- 
pipe, Castlewood did not cease to talk to Harry Esmond in 
praise of his new friend, and in fact did not leave olF speaking 
of him until his Lordship was so tipsy that he could not speak 
plainly any more. 

At breakfast next day it was the same talk renewed ; and 
when my Lady said there was something free in the Lord 
Mohun’s looks and manner of speech which caused her to 
mistrust him, her lord burst out with one of his laughs and 
oaths ; said that he never liked man, woman, or beast, but 
what she was sure to be jealous of it ; that Mohun was the 
prettiest fellow in England ; that he hoped to see more of him 
whilst in the country ; and that he would let Mohun know 
what my Lady Prude said of him. 

“ Indeed,” Lady Castlewood said, “ I liked his conversation 
well enough. ’Tis more amusing than that of most people I 
know. I thought it, I own, too free ; not from what he said, 
as rather from what he implied.” 

Psha ! your Ladyship does not know the world,” said her 
husband ; “ and you have always been as squeamish as when 
you were a miss of fifteen.” 

You found no fault when I was a miss at fifteen,” 


I2I 


Henry Esmond 

‘‘ Begad, madam, you are grown too old for a pinafore now ; 
and I hold that ’tis for me to judge what company my wife 
shall see,” said my Lord, slapping the table. 

“ Indeed, Francis, I never thought otherwise,” answered my 
Lady, rising and dropping him a curtsey, in which stately 
action, if there was obedience, there was defiance too *, and in 
which a bystander, deeply interested in the happiness of that 
pair as Harry Esmond was, might see how hopelessly separated 
they were ; what a great gulf of difference and discord had 
run between them. 

“ By G — d ! Mohun is the best fellow in England ; and I’ll 
invite him here, just to plague that woman. Did you ever 
see such a frigid insolence as it is, Harry ? That’s the way 
she treats me,” he broke out, storming, and his face growing 
red as he clenched his fists and went on. “ I’m nobody in 
my own house. I’m to be the humble servant of that parson’s 
daughter. By Jove ! I’d rather she should fling the dish at 
my head than sneer at me as she does. She puts me to shame 

before the children with her d d airs ; and. I’ll swear, 

tells Frank and Beaty that papa’s a reprobate, and that they 
ought to despise me.” 

Indeed and indeed, sir, I never heard her say a word but 
of respect regarding you,” Harry Esmond interposed. 

“ No, curse it ! I wish she would speak. But she never 
does. She scorns me, and holds her tongue. She keeps off 
from me, as if I was a pestilence. By George ! she was fond 
enough of her pestilence once. And when I came a-courting, 
you would see miss blush — blush red, by George ! for joy. 
Why, what do you think she said to me, Harry ? She said 

herself, when I joked with her about her d d smiling red 

cheeks : ‘ ’Tis as they do at St James’s ; I put up my red flag 
when my king comes.’ I was the king, you see, she meant. 
But now, sir, look at her ! I believe she would be glad if I 
was dead ; and dead I’ve been to her these five years — ever 
since you all of you had the small-pox : and she never forgave 
me for going away.” 

‘‘ Indeed, my Lord, though ’twas hard to forgive, I 
think my mistress forgave it,” Harry Esmond said j “ and 
remember how eagerly she watched your Lordship’s return, 


122 The History of 

and how sadly she turned away when she saw your cold 
looks.” 

‘‘ Damme ! ” cries o^t my Lord ; ‘‘ would you have had me 
wait and catch the small-pox ? Where the deuce had been the 
good of that ? ril bear danger with any man — but not useless 
danger — no, no. Thank you for nothing. And — you nod 
your head, and I know very well. Parson Harry, what you 
mean. There was the — the other affair to make her angry. 
But is a woman never to forgive a husband who goes a-tripping ? 
Do you take me for a saint ? ” 

“ Indeed, sir, I do not,” says Harry, with a smile. 

“ Since that time my wife’s as cold as the statue at Charing 
Cross. I tell thee she has no forgiveness in her, Henry. Her 
coldness blights my whole life, and sends me to the punch- 
bowl, or driving about the country. My children are not 
mine, but hers, when we are together. ’Tis only when she is 
out of sight with her abominable cold glances, that run through 
me, that they’ll come to me, and that I dare to give them so 
much as a kiss ; and that’s why I take ’em and love ’em in 
other people’s houses, Harry. I’m killed by the very virtue 
of that proud woman. Virtue ! give me the virtue that can 
forgive ; give me the virtue that thinks not of preserving 
itself, but of making other folks happy. Damme, what 
matters a scar or two if ’tis got in helping a friend in ill 
fortune ? ” 

And my Lord again slapped the table, and took a great 
draught from the tankard. Harry Esmond admired as he 
listened to him, and thought how the poor preacher of this 
self-sacrifice had fled from the small-pox, which the lady had 
borne so cheerfully, and which had been the cause of so much 
disunion in the lives of all in this house. “ How well men 
preach,” thought the young man, “ and each is the example 
in his own sermon ! How each has a story in a dispute, and 
a true one, too, and both are right or wrong as you will.” 
Harry’s heart was pained within him, to watch the struggles 
and pangs that tore the breast of this kind, manly friend and 
protector. 

“ Indeed, sir,” said he, “ I wish to God that my mistress 
could hear you speak as I have heard you ; she would know 


123 


Henry Esmond 

much that would make her life the happier, could she hear it.” 
But my Lord flung away with one of his oaths, and a jeer : he 
said that Parson Harry was a good fellow ; but that as for 
women, all women were alike — all jades and heartless. So a 
man dashes a fine vase down, and despises it for being broken. 
It may be worthless — true : but who had the keeping of it, and 
who shattered it ? 

Harry, who would have given his life to make his bene- 
factress and her husband happy, bethought him, now that he 
saw what my Lord’s state of mind was, and that he really had 
a great deal of that love left in his heart, and ready for his 
wife’s acceptance if she would take it, whether he could not be 
a means of reconciliation between these two persons, whom 
he revered the most in the world. And he cast about how he 
should break a part of his mind to his mistress, and warn her 
that in his, Harry’s opinion, at least, her husband was still her 
admirer, and even her lover. 

But he found the subject a very difficult one to handle, when 
he ventured to remonstrate, which he did in the very gravest 
tone (for long confidence and reiterated proofs of devotion and 
loyalty had given him a sort of authority in the house, which 
he resumed as soon as ever he returned to it), and with a speech 
that should have some effect, as, indeed, it was uttered with 
the speaker’s own heart, he ventured most gently to hint to his 
adored mistress that she was doing her husband harm by her 
ill opinion of him, an4 that the happiness of all the family 
depended upon setting her right. 

She, who was ordinarily calm and most gentle, and full of 
smiles and soft attentions, flushed up when young Esmond so 
spoke to her, and rose from her chair, looking at him with a 
haughtiness and indignation that he had never before known 
her to display. She was quite an altered being for that 
moment ; and looked an angry princess insulted by a vassal. 

“ Have you ever heard me utter a word, in my Lord’s dis- 
paragement ? ” she asked hastily, hissing out her words, and 
stamping her foot. 

‘‘ Indeed, no,” Esmond said, looking down. 

“Are you come to me as his ambassador — youV^ she 
continued. 


124 


The History of 

I would sooner see peace between you than anything else 
in the world,” Harry answered, ‘‘ and would goof any embassy 
that had that end.” 

“ So you are my Lord’s go-between ? ” she went on, not 
regarding this speech. “You are sent to bid me back into 
slavery again, and inform me that my Lord’s favour is graciously 
restored to his handmaid } He is weary of Covent Garden, 
is he, that he comes home and would have the fatted calf 
killed ? ” 

“ There’s good authority for it surely,” said Esmond. 

“ For a son, yes •, but my Lord is not my son. It was he 
who cast me away from him. It was he who broke our 
happiness down, and he bids me to repair it. It was he who 
showed himself to me at last as he was, not as I had thought 
him. It is he who comes before my children stupid and 
senseless with wine — who leaves our company for that of 
frequenters of taverns and bagnios — who goes from his home 
to the city yonder and his friends there, and when he is 
tired of them returns hither, and expects that I shall kneel and 
welcome him. And he sends you as his chamberlain ! What 
a proud embassy ! Monsieur, I make you my compliment of 
the new place.” 

“ It would be a proud embassy, and a happy embassy too, 
could I bring you and my Lord together,” Esmond replied. 

“ I presume you have fulfilled your mission now, sir. ’Twas 
a pretty one for you to undertake. I don’t know whether ’tis 
your Cambridge philosophy, or time, that has altered your 
ways of thinking,” Lady Castlewood continued, still in a 
sarcastic tone. “ Perhaps you have learned to love drink, and 
to hiccup over your wine or punch ; — which is your worship’s 
favourite liquor ? Perhaps you too put up at the ‘ Rose ’ on 
your way to London, and have your acquaintances in Covent 
Garden. My services to you, sir, to principal and ambassador, 
to master and — and lacquey.” 

“ Great heavens ! madam,” cried Harry. “ What have I 
done that thus, for a second time, you insult me } Do you 
wish me to blush for what I used to be proud of, that I lived 
on your bounty ? Next to doing you a service (which my 
life would pay for), you know that to receive one from you is 


Henry Esmond 1 25 

my highest pleasure. What wrong have I done you that you 
should wound me so, cruel woman ? ” 

‘‘ What wrong ! ” she said, looking at Esmond with wild 
eyes. “Well, none — none that you know of, Harry, or could 
help. Why did you bring back the small-pox,” she added, 
after a pause, “from Castlewood village? You could not 
help it, could you ? Which of us knows whither fate leads 
us ? But we were all happy, Henry, till then.” And Harry 
went away from this colloquy, thinking still that the estrange- 
ment between his patron and his beloved mistress was re- 
mediable, and that each had at heart a strong attachment to 
the other. 

The intimacy between the Lords Mohun and Castlewood 
appeared to increase as long as the former remained in the 
country j and my Lord of Castlewood especially seemed never 
to be happy out of his new comrade’s sight. They sported 
together, they drank, they played bowls and tennis : my Lord 
Castlewood would go for three days to Sark, and bring back 
my Lord Mohun to Castlewood — where indeed his Lordship 
made himself very welcome to all persons, having a joke or a 
new game at romps for the children, all the talk of the town 
for my Lord, and music and gallantry and plenty of the heau 
langage for my Lady, and for Harry Esmond, who was never 
tired of hearing his stories of his campaigns and his life at 
Vienna, Venice, Paris, and the famous cities of Europe which 
he had visited both In peace and war. And he sang at my 
Lady’s harpsichord, and played cards or backgammon, or his 
new game of billiards with my Lord (of whom he invariably 
got the better) *, always having a consummate good-humour, 
and bearing himself with a certain manly grace, that might 
exhibit somewhat of the camp and Alsatia perhaps, but that 
had its charm, and stamped him a gentleman : and his manner 
to Lady Castlewood was so devoted and respectful, that she 
soon recovered from the first feelings of dislike which she had 
conceived against him — nay, before long, began to be interested 
in his spiritual welfare, and hopeful of his conversion, lending 
I him books of piety, which he promised dutifully to study. 

I With her my Lord talked of reform, of settling into quiet 
' life, quitting the court and town, and buying some land in the 


126 


The History of 

neighbourhood — though it must be owned that, when the two 
lords were together over their Burgundy after dinner, their 
talk was very different, and there was very little question of 
conversion on my Lord Mohun’s part. When they got to 
their second bottle, Harry Esmond used commonly to leave 
these two noble topers, who, though they talked freely 
enough. Heaven knows, in his presence (good Lord, what a 
set of stories, of Alsatia and Spring Garden, of the taverns 
and gaming-houses, of the ladies of the Court, and mesdames 
of the theatres, he can recall out of their godly conversation !) 
— although, I say, they talked before Esmond freely, yet they 
seemed pleased when he went away, and then they had another 
bottle, and then they fell to cards, and then my Lord Mohun 
came to her Ladyship’s drawing-room ; leaving his boon com- 
panion to sleep off his wine. 

’Twas a point of honour with the fine gentlemen of those 
days to lose or win magnificently at their horse-matches, or 
games of cards and dice — and you could never tell, from the 
demeanour of these two lords afterwards, which had been 
successful and which the loser at their games. And when my 
Lady hinted to my Lord that he played more than she liked, 
he dismissed her with a “pish,” and swore that nothing was 
more equal than play betwixt gentlemen, if they did but keep 
it up long enough. And these kept it up long enough, you 
may be sure. A man of fashion of that time often passed 
a quarter of his day at cards, and another quarter at drink : 
I have known many a pretty fellow, who was a wit, too, ready 
of repartee, and possessed of a thousand graces, who would 
be puzzled if he had to write more than his name. 

There is scarce any thoughtful man or woman, I suppose, 
but can look back upon his course or past life, and remember 
some point, trifling as it may have seemed at the time of 
occurrence, which has nevertheless turned and altered his 
whole career. ’Tis with almost all of us, as in M. Massillon’s 
magnificent image regarding King William, a grain de sable 
that perverts or perhaps overthrows us ; and so it was but 
a light word flung in the air, a mere freak of perverse child’s 
temper, that brought down a whole heap of crushing woes 
upon that family whereof Harry Esmond formed a part. 


127 


Henry Esmond 

Coming home to his dear Castlewood in the third year of 
his academical course (wherein he had now obtained some 
distinction, his Latin Poem on the death of the Duke of 
Gloucester, Princess Anne of Denmark’s son, having gained 
him a medal, and introduced him to the society of the Uni- 
versity wits), Esmond found his little friend and pupil Beatrix 
grown to be taller than her mother, a slim and lovely young 
girl, with cheeks mantling with health and roses; with eyes 
like stars shining out of azure, with waving bronze hair 
clustered about the fairest young forehead ever seen : and a 
mien and shape haughty and beautiful, such as that of the 
famous antique statue of the huntress Diana — at one time 
haughty, rapid, imperious, with eyes and arrows that dart and 
kill. Harry watched and wondered at this young creature, 
and likened her in his mind to Artemis with the ringing bow 
and shafts flashing death upon the children of Niobe; at 
another time she was coy and melting as Luna shining tenderly 
upon Endymion. This fair creature, this lustrous Phoebe, 
was only young as yet, nor had nearly reached her full 
splendour : but crescent and brilliant, our young gentleman 
of the University, his head full of poetical fancies, his heart 
perhaps throbbing with desires undefined, admired this rising 
young divinity ; and gazed at her (though only as at some 
“ bright particular star,” far above his earth) with endless de- 
light and wonder. « She had been a coquette from the earliest 
times almost, trying her freaks and jealousies, her wayward 
frolics and winning caresses, upon all that came within her 
reach; she set her women quarrelling in the nursery, and 
practised her eyes on the groom as she rode behind him on 
the pillion. 

She was the darling and torment of father and mother. She 
intrigued with each secretly ; and bestowed her fondness and 
withdrew it, plied them with tears, smiles, kisses, cajolements; 
— when the mother was angry, as happened often, flew to the 
father, and sheltering behind him, pursued her victim ; when 
both were displeased, transferred her caresses to the domestics, 
or watched until she could win back her parents’ good graces, 
either by surprising them into laughter and good-humour, or 
appeasing them by submission and artful humility. She was 


128 


The History of 

savo lata negotioy like that fickle goddess Horace describes, and 
of whose ‘‘ malicious joy” a great poet of our own has written 
so nobly — who, famous and heroic as he was, was not strong 
enough to resist the torture of women. 

It was but three years before that the child, then but ten 
years old, had nearly managed to make a quarrel between 
Harry Esmond and his comrade, good-natured, phlegmatic 
Thomas Tusher, who never of his own seeking quarrelled 
with anybody ; by quoting to the latter some silly joke which 
Harry had made regarding him — (it was the merest idlest jest, 
though it near drove two old friends to blows, and I think such 
a battle would have pleased her) — and from that day Tom 
kept at a distance from her; and she respected him, and 
coaxed him sedulously whenever they met. But Harry was 
much more easily appeased, because he was fonder of the 
child ; and when she made mischief, used cutting speeches, or 
caused her friends pain, she excused herself for her fault not 
by admitting and deploring it, but by pleading not guilty, and 
asserting innocence so constantly and with such seeming 
artlessness, that it was impossible to question her plea. In 
her childhood, they were but mischiefs then which she did ; 
but her power became more fatal as she grew older — as a 
kitten first plays with a ball, and then pounces on a bird and 
kills it. ’Tis not to be imagined that Harry Esmond had all 
this experience at this early stage of his life, whereof he is now 
writing the history — many things here noted were but known 
to him in later days. Almost everything Beatrix did or undid 
seemed good, or at least pardonable, to him then, and years 
afterwards. 

It happened, then, that Harry Esmond came home to Castle- 
wood for his last vacation, with good hopes of a fellowship at 
his College, and a contented resolve to advance his fortune 
that way. ’Twas in the first year of the present century, Mr 
Esmond (as far as he knew the period of his birth) being then 
twenty-two years old. He found his quondam pupil shot up 
into this beauty of which we have spoken, and promising yet 
more ; her brother, my Lord’s son, a handsome, high-spirited, 
brave lad, generous and frank, and kind to everybody, save 
perhaps his sister, with whom Frank was at war (and not 


Henry Esmond 129 

j from his but her fault) — adoring his mother, whose joy he 
I was : and^ taking her side in the unhappy matrimonial differ- 
I ences which were now permanent, while of course Mistress 
I Beatrix ranged with her father. When heads of families fall 
I out, it must naturally be that their dependants wear the one 
or the other party’s colour ; and even in the parliaments in 
the servants’ hall or the stables, Harry, who had an early 
observant turn, could see which were my Lord’s adherents and 
which my Lady’s, and conjecture pretty shrewdly how their 
unlucky quarrel was debated. Our lacqueys sit in judgment 
on us. My Lord’s intrigues may be ever so stealthily con- 
ducted, but his valet knows them ; and my Lady’s woman 
carries her mistress’ private history to the servants’ scandal 
market, and exchanges it against the secrets of other abigails. 


Chapter XIII 

My Lord leaves us and his Evil behind him 

My Lord Mohun (of whose exploits and fame some of the 
gentlemen of the University had brought down but ugly 
reports) was once more a guest at Castlewood, and seemingly 
more intimately allied with my Lord even than before. Once 
in the spring those -two noblemen had ridden to Cambridge 
from Newmarket, whither they had gone for the horse-racing, 
and had honoured Harry Esmond with a visit at his rooms ; 
after which Doctor Montague, the Master of the College, 
who had treated Harry somewhat haughtily, seeing his famili- 
arity with these great folks, and that my Lord Castlewood 
laughed and walked with his hand on Harry’s shoulder, re- 
lented to Mr Esmond, and condescended to be very civil to 
him ; and some days after his arrival, Harry, laughing, told 
this story to Lady Esmond, remarking how strange it was that 
men famous for learning and renowned over Europe, should, 
nevertheless, so bow down to a title, and cringe to a nobleman 
ever so poor. At this Mistress Beatrix flung up her head, and 
said it became those of low origin to respect their betters ; that 
the parsons made themselves a great deal too proud, she 

I 


130 The History of 

thought; and that she liked the way at Lady Sark’s best, 
where the chaplain, though he loved pudding, as all parsons 
do, always went away before the custard. 

“ And when I am a parson,” says Mr Esmond, ‘‘ will you 
give me no custard, Beatrix ? ” 

You — you are different,” Beatrix answered. “You are 
of our blood.” 

“ My father was a parson, as you call him,” said my Lady. 

“ But mine is a peer of Ireland,” says Mistress Beatrix, 
tossing her head. “ Let people know their places. I suppose 
you will have me go down on my knees and ask a blessing of 
Mr Thomas Tusher, that has just been made a curate, and 
whose mother was a waiting-maid.” 

And she tossed out of the room, being in one of her flighty 
humours then. 

When she was gone, my Lady looked so sad and grave, that 
Harry asked the cause of her disquietude. She said it was 
not merely what he said of Newmarket, but what she had re- 
marked, with great anxiety and terror, that my Lord, ever 
since his acquaintance with the Lord Mohun especially, had 
recurred to his fondness for play, which he had renounced 
since his marriage. 

“ But men promise more than they are able to perform in 
marriage,” said my Lady, with a sigh. “ I fear he has lost 
large sums ; and our property, always small, is dwindling 
away under this reckless dissipation. I heard of him in Lon- 
don with very wild company. Since his return letters and 
lawyers are constantly coming and going : he seems to me to 
have a constant anxiety, though he hides it under boisterous- 
ness and laughter. I looked through — through the door last 
night, and — and before,” said my Lady, “ and saw them at 
cards after midnight; no estate will bear that extravagance, 
much less ours, which will be so diminished that my son will 
have nothing at all, and my poor Beatrix no portion ! ” 

“ I wish I could help you, madam,” said Harry Esmond, 
sighing, and wishing that unavailingly, and for the thousandth 
time in his life. 

“ Who can Only God,” said Lady Esmond — “ only God, 
in whose hands we are,” And so it is, and for his rule over his 


Henry Esmond 13 1 

family, and for his conduct to wife and children — subjects over 
whom his power is monarchical — any one who watches the 
world must think with trembling sometimes of the account 
which many a man will have to render. For in our society 
there’s no law to control the King of the Fireside. He is 
master of property, happiness — life almost. He is free to 
punish, to make happy or unhappy — to ruin or to torture. He 
may kill a wife gradually, and be no more questioned than the 
Grand Seignior who drowns a slave at midnight. He may 
make slaves and hypocrites of his children •, or friends and free- 
men ; or drive them into revolt and enmity against the natural 
law of love. I have heard politicians and coffee-house wise- 
acres talking over the newspaper, and railing at the tyranny of 
the French King, and the Emperor, and wondered how these 
(who are monarchs, too, in their way) govern their own 
dominions at home, where each man rules absolute. When 
the annals of each little reign are shown to the Supreme 
Master, under whom we hold sovereignty, histories will be 
laid bare of household tyrants as cruel as Amurath, and as 
savage as Nero, and as reckless and dissolute as Charles. 

If Harry Esmond’s patron erred, ’twas in the latter way, 
from a disposition rather self-indulgent than cruel ; and he 
might have been brought back to much better feelings, had 
time been given to him to bring his repentance to a lasting 
reform. 

As my Lord and his friend Lord Mohun were such close 
companions. Mistress Beatrix chose to be jealous of the latter; 
and the two gentlemen often entertained each other by laugh- 
ing, in their rude boisterous way, at the child’s freaks of anger 
and show of dislike. “ When thou art old enough, thou shalt 
marry Lord Mohun,” Beatrix’s father would say : on which 
the girl would pout and say, ‘‘ I would rather marry Tom 
Tusher.” And because the Lord Mohun always showed an 
extreme gallantry to my Lady Castlewood, whom he professed 
to admire devotedly, one day, in answer to this old joke of 
her father’s, Beatrix said, ‘‘ I think my Lord would rather 
marry mamma than marry me ; and is waiting till you die to 
ask her.” 

The words were said lightly and pertly by the girl one night 


132 


The History of 

before supper, as the family party were assembled near the 
great fire. The two lords, who were at cards, both gave a 
start ; my Lady turned as red as scarlet, and bade Mistress 
Beatrix go to her own chamber ; whereupon the girl, putting 
on, as her wont was, the most innocent air, said, “ I am sure 
I meant no wrong ; I am sure mamma talks a great deal more 
to Harry Esmond than she does to papa — and she cried when 
Harry went away, and she never does when papa goes away ! 
And last night she talked to Lord Mohun for ever so long, 
and sent us out of the room, and cried when we came back, 
and ” 

‘‘ D n ! ” cried out my Lord Castlewood, out of all 

patience. “ Go out of the room, you little viper ! ” and he 
started up and flung down his cards. 

‘‘ Ask Lord Mohun what I said to him, Francis,” her Lady- 
ship said, rising up with a scared face, but yet with a great 
and touching dignity and candour in her look and voice. 
‘‘ Come away with me, Beatrix.” Beatrix sprang up too; she 
was in tears now. 

“ Dearest mamma, what have I done ? ” she asked. Sure 
I meant no harm.” And she clung to her mother, and the pair 
went out sobbing together. 

“ I will tell you what your wife said to me, Frank,” my 
Lord Mohun cried. “Parson Harry may hear it; and, as I 
hope for heaven, every word I say is true. Last night, with 
tears in her eyes, your wife implored me to play no more with 
you at dice or at cards, and you know best whether what she 
asked was not for your good.” 

“ Of course it was, Mohun,” says my Lord, in a dry hard 
voice. “ Of course you are a model of a man ; and the world 
knows what a saint you are.” 

My Lord Mohun was separated from his wife, and had had 
many affairs of honour : of which women as usual had been 
the cause. 

“I am no saint, though your wife is — and I can answer for 
my actions as other people must for their words,” said my 
Lord Mohun. 

“ By G — , my Lord, you shall,” cried the other, starting up. 

“We have another little account to settle first, my Lord,” 





pH 



l'>9l r^:f 



pMI 

ri':I "U^' 




■D - N* CRIED OUT I^Y LORD CA5TLEWOOD, 
OUT OF ALL PATIHNCE. ''A5K LORD MOHUN 
WHAT 1 5A1D TO HIM FR-ANCIS' -BOOM CHAP XIIL 



133 


Henry Esmond 

says Lord Mohun. Whereupon Harry Esmond, filled with 
alarm for the consequences to which this disastrous dispute 
might lead, broke out into the most vehement expostulations 
with his patron and his adversary. “ Gracious heavens ! ” he 
said, ** my Lord, are you going to draw a sword upon your 
friend in your own house ? Can you doubt the honour of a 
lady who is as pure as heaven, and would die a thousand times 
rather than do you a wrong ? Are the idle words of a jealous 
child to set friends at variance ? Has not my mistress, as 
much as she dared do, besought your Lordship, as the truth 
must be told, to break your intimacy with my Lord Mohun ; 
and to give up the habit which may bring ruin on your 
family ^ But for my Lord Mohun’s illness, had he not left 
you ? ” 

“ ’Faith, Frank, a man with a gouty toe can’t run after other 
men’s wives,” broke out my Lord Mohun, who indeed was in 
that way, and with a laugh and a look at his swathed limb so 
frank and comical, that the other, dashing his fist across his 
forehead, was caught by that infectious good-humour, and 

said with his oath, “ D it, Harry, I believe thee,” and so 

this quarrel was over, and the two gentlemen, at swords drawn 
but just now, dropped their points, and shook hands. 

Beati pacificu “ Go bring my Lady back,” said Harry’s 
patron. Esmond went away only too glad to be the bearer 
of such good news. He found her at the door ; she had been 
listening there, but went back as he came. She took both his 
hands, hers were marble cold. She seemed as if she would fall 
on his shoulder. “ Thank you, and God bless you, my dear 
brother Harry,” she said. She kissed his hand, Esmond felt 
her tears upon it : and leading her into the room, and up to 
my Lord, the Lord Castlewood, with an outbreak of feeling 
and affection such as he had not exhibited for many a long day, 
took his wife to his heart, and bent over and kissed her and 
asked her pardon. 

“’Tis time for me to go to roost. I will have my gruel 
a-bed,” said my Lord Mohun ; and limped off comically on 
Harry Esmond’s arm. “ By George, that woman is a pearl ! ” 
he said ; “ and ’tis only a pig that wouldn’t value her. Have 
you seen the vulgar trapesing orange girl whom Esmond ” — 


134 


The History of 

but here Mr Esmond interrupted him, saying, that these were 
not affairs for him to know. 

My Lord’s gentleman came in to wait upon his master, who 
was no sooner in his nightcap and dressing-gown than he had 
another visitor whom his host insisted on sending to him : and 
this was no other than the Lady Castlewood herself with the 
toast and gruel, which her husband bade her make and carry 
with her own hands in to her guest. 

Lord Castlewood stood looking after his wife as she went 
on this errand, and as he looked, Harry Esmond could not 
but gaze on him, and remarked in his patron’s face an ex- 
pression of love, and grief, and care, which very much moved 
and touched the young man. Lord Castlewood’s hands fell 
down at his sides, and his head on his breast, and presently 
he said — 

“ You heard what Mohun said. Parson ? ” 

“ That my Lady was a saint ? ” 

That there are two accounts to settle. I have been going 
wrong these five years, Harry Esmond. Ever since you 
brought that damned small-pox into the house, there has been 
a fate pursuing me, and I had best have died of it, and not 
run away from it like a coward. I left Beatrix with her 
relations, and went to London ; and I fell among thieves, 
Harry, and I got back to confounded cards and dice, which 
I hadn’t touched since my marriage — no, not since I was in 
the Duke’s Guard, with those wild Mohocks. And I have 
been playing worse and worse, and going deeper and deeper 
into it ; and I owe Mohun two thousand pounds now ; and 
when it’s paid I am little better than a beggar. I don’t like 
to look my boy in the face ; he hates me, I know he does. 
And I have spent Beaty’s little portion : and the Lord knows 
what will come if I live. The best thing I can do is to die, 
and release what portion of the estate is redeemable for the 
boy.” 

Mohun was as much master at Castlewood as the owner of 
the Hall itself ; and his equipages filled the stables, where, 
indeed, there was room in plenty for many more horses than 
Harry Esmond’s impoverished patron could afford to keep. 
He had arrived on horseback with his people *, but when his 


135 


Henry Esmond 

gout broke out my Lord Mohun sent to London for a light 
chaise he had, drawn by a pair of small horses, and running 
as swift, wherever roads were good, as a Laplander’s sledge. 
When this carriage came, his Lordship was eager to drive the 
Lady Castlewood abroad in it, and did so many times, and at a 
rapid pace, greatly to his companion’s enjoyment, who loved 
the swift motion and the healthy breezes over the downs 
which lie hard upon Castlewood, and stretch thence towards 
the sea. As this amusement was very pleasant to her, and 
her lord, far from showing any mistrust of her intimacy with 
^ Lord Mohun, encouraged her to be his companion — as if will- 
i; ing by his present extreme confidence to make up for any past 
mistrust which his jealousy had shown — the Lady Castlewood 
[ enjoyed herself freely in this harmless diversion, which, it 
i must be owned, her guest was very eager to give her ; and it 
: seemed that she grew the more free with Lord Mohun, and 
I pleased with his company, because of some sacrifice which his 
; gallantry was pleased to make in her favour. 

Seeing the two gentlemen constantly at cards still of even- 
i ings, Harry Esmond one day deplored to his mistress that this 
i fatal infatuation of her lord should continue ; and now they 
I seemed reconciled together, begged his lady to hint to her 
[ husband that he should play no more. 

But Lady Castlewood, smiling archly and gaily, said she 
* would speak to him presently, and that, for a few nights more 
i at least, he might be let to have his amusement. 

“ Indeed, madam,” said Harry, “ you know not what it 
\ costs you ; and ’tis easy for any observer who knows the game, 
to see that Lord Mohun is by far the stronger of the two.” 

** I know he is,” says my Lady, still with exceeding good 
humour ; “he is not only the best player, but the kindest 
player in the world.” 

j “ Madam, madam ! ” Esmond cried, transported and pro- 
] voked. “ Debts of honour must be paid some time or other ; 
and my master will be ruined if he goes on.” 

“Harry, shall I tell you a secret?” my Lady replied, with 
kindness and pleasure still in her eyes. “ Francis will not be 
ruined if he goes on ; he will be rescued if he goes on. I 
repent of having spoken and thought unkindly of the Lord 


136 The History of 

Mohun when he was here in the past year. He is full of 
much kindness and good : and ’tis my belief that we shall 
bring him to better things. I have lent him Tillotson and 
your favourite Bishop Taylor, and he is much touched, he 
says ; and as a proof of his repentance — (and herein lies my 
secret) — what do you think he is doing with Francis ? He is 
letting poor Frank win his money back again. He hath won 
already at the last four nights ; and my Lord Mohun says that 
he will not be the means of injuring poor Frank and my dear 
children.” 

“ And in God’s name, what do you return him for the 
sacrifice ? ” asked Esmond aghast ; who knew enough of men, 
and of this one in particular, to be aware that such a finished 
rake gave nothing for nothing. ‘‘ How, in Heaven’s name, 
are you to pay him ? ” 

“ Pay him ! With a mother’s blessing and a wife’s prayers ! ” 
cries my Lady, clasping her hands together. Harry Esmond 
did not know whether to laugh, to be angry, or to love his 
dear mistress more than ever for the obstinate innocency with 
which she chose to regard the conduct of a man of the world, 
whose designs he knew better how to interpret. He told the 
lady, guardedly, but so as to make his meaning quite clear to 
her, what he knew in respect of the former life and conduct 
of this nobleman ; of other women against whom he had 
plotted, and whom he had overcome j of the conversation 
which he, Harry himself, had had with Lord Mohun, wherein 
the lord made a boast of his libertinism, and frequently avowed 
that he held all women to be fair game (as his Lordship styled 
this pretty sport), and that they were all, without exception, 
to be won. And the return Harry had for his entreaties and 
remonstrances was a fit of anger on Lady Castlewood’s part, 
who would not listen to his accusations ; she said and retorted 
that he himself must be very wicked and perverted to suppose 
evil designs where she was sure none were meant. ‘‘ And 
this is the good meddlers get of interfering,” Harry thought 
to himself with much bitterness ; and his perplexity and 
annoyance were only the greater, because he could not speak 
to my Lord Castle wood himself upon a subject of this nature, 
or venture to advise or warn him regarding a matter so very 


Henry Esmond 137 

sacred as his own honour, of which my Lord was naturally 
the best guardian. 

But though Lady Castlewood would listen to no advice from 
her young dependant, and appeared indignantly to refuse it 
when offered, Harry had the satisfaction to find that she 
adopted the counsel which she professed to reject ; for the 
next day she pleaded a headache, when my Lord Mohun would 
have had her drive out, and the next day the headache con- 
tinued ; and next day, in a laughing gay way, she proposed 
that the children should take her place in his Lordship’s car, 

■ for they would be charmed with a ride of all things ; and she 
must not have all the pleasure for herself. My Lord gave 
them a drive with a very good grace, though, I dare say, with 
rage and disappointment inwardly — not that his heart was very 
seriously engaged in his designs upon this simple lady : but 
the life of such men is often one of intrigue, and they can no 
more go through the day without a woman to pursue, than a 
fox-hunter without his sport after breakfast. 

Under an affected carelessness of demeanour, and though 
there was no outward demonstration of doubt upon his patron’s 
, part since the quarrel between the two lords, Harry yet saw 
that Lord Castlewood was watching his guest very narrowly ; 
I and caught sight of distrust and smothered rage (as Harry 
I thought) which foreboded no good. On the point of honour 
Esmond knew how touchy his patron was ; and watched him 
almost as a physician watches a patient, and it seemed to him 
that this one was slow to take the disease, though he could 
not throw off the poison when once it had mingled with his 
blood. We read in Shakspeare (whom the writer for his 
part considers to be far beyond Mr Congreve, Mr Dryden, or 
any of the wits of the present period), that when jealousy 
is once declared, nor poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the 
drowsy syrups of the East, will ever soothe it or medicine it 
away. 

In fine, the symptoms seemed to be so alarming to this 
young physician (who, indeed, young as he was, had felt the 
kind pulses of all those dear kinsmen), that Harry thought 
it would be his duty to warn my Lord Mohun, and let him 
know that his designs were suspected and watched. So one 


138 The History of 

day, when in rather a pettish humour his Lordship had sent 
to Lady Castle wood, who had promised to drive with him, 
and now refused to come, Harry said, “ My Lord, if you 
wilhkindly give me a place by your side I will thank you ; I 
have much to say to you, and would like to speak to you 
alone.” 

“ You honour me by giving me your confidence, Mr Henry 
Esmond,” says the other, with a very grand bow. My Lord 
was always a fine gentleman, and young as he was there 
was that in Esmond’s manner which showed that he was a 
gentleman too, and that none might take a liberty with him — 
so the pair went out, and mounted the little carriage, which 
was in waiting for them in the court, with its two little cream- 
coloured Hanoverian horses covered with splendid furniture 
and champing at the bit. 

“ My Lord,” says Harry Esmond, after they were got into 
the country, and pointing to my Lord Mohun’s foot, which 
was swathed in flannel, and put up rather ostentatiously on a 
cushion — ‘‘ my Lord, I studied medicine at Cambridge.” 

‘‘Indeed, Parson Harry,” says he; “and are you going 
to take out a diploma : and cure your fellow-creatures of 
the ” 

“ Of the gout,” says Harry, interrupting him, and looking 
him hard in the face : “I know a good deal about the gout.” 

“ I hope you may never have it. ’Tis an infernal disease,” 
says my Lord, “ and its twinges are diabolical. Ah ! ” and he 
made a dreadful wry face, as if he just felt a twinge. 

“ Your Lordship would be much better if you took off all 
that flannel — it only serves to inflame the toe,” Harry con- 
tinued, looking his man full in the face. 

“ Oh ! it only serves to inflame the toe, does it ? ” says the 
other, with an innocent air. 

“ If you took off that flannel, and flung that absurd slipper 
away, and wore a boot,” continues Harry. 

“ You recommend me boots, Mr Esmond ? ” asks my Lord. 

“ Yes, boots and spurs. I saw your Lordship three days 
ago run down the gallery fast enough,” Harry goes on. “I 
am sure that taking gruel at night is not so pleasant as 
claret to your Lordship ; and besides it keeps your Lordship’s 


Henry Esmond 139 

head cool for play, whilst my patron’s is hot and flustered 
with drink.” 

‘‘ ’Sdeath, sir, you dare not say that I don’t play fair ? ” 
cries my Lord, whipping his horses, which went away at a 
gallop. 

“You are cool when my Lord is drunk,” Harry continued ; 
“ your Lordship gets the better of my patron. I have watched 
you as I looked up from my books.” 

“ You young Argus ! ” says Lord Mohun, who liked Harry 
Esmond — and for whose company and wit, and a certain daring 
manner, Harry had a great liking too — “ You young Argus ! 
you may look with all your hundred eyes and see we play 
fair. I’ve played away an estate of a night, and I’ve played 
my shirt off my back ; and I’ve played away my periwig and 
gone home in a nightcap. But no man can say I ever took an 
advantage of him beyond the advantage of the game. I played 
a dice-cogging scoundrel in Alsatia for his ears and won ’em, 
and have one of ’em in my lodging in Bow Street in a bottle 
of spirits. Harry Mohun will play any man for anything — 
always would.” 

“You are playing awful stakes, my Lord, in my patron’s 
house,” Harry said, “ and more games than are on the cards.” 

“What do you mean, sir?” cries my Lord, turning round, 
with a flush on his face. 

“ I mean,” answers Harry, in a sarcastic tone, “ that your 
gout is well — if ever you had it.” 

“ Sir ! ” cried my Lord, getting hot. 

“ And to tell the truth, I believe your Lordship has no more 
gout than I have. At any rate, change of air will do you 
good, my Lord Mohun. And I mean fairly that you had 
better go from Castlewood.” 

“ And were you appointed to give me this message ? ” cries 
the Lord Mohun. “ Did Frank Esmond commission you ? ” 

“ No one did. ’Twas the honour of my family that 
commissioned me.” 

“ And you are prepared to answer this ? ” cries the other, 
furiously lashing his horses. 

“ Quite, my Lord ; your Lordship will upset the carriage if 
you whip so hotly.” 


140 


The History of 

“ By George, you have a brave spirit ! ’’ my Lord cried out, 
bursting into a laugh. “ I suppose ’tis that infernal hotte de 
Jesuite that makes you so bold,” he added. 

“ ’Tis the peace of the family I love best in the world,” 
Harry Esmond said warmly — “ ’Tis the honour of a noble bene- 
factor — the happiness of my dear mistress and her children. 
I owe them everything in life, my Lord ; and would lay it 
down for any one of them. What brings you here to disturb 
this quiet household ? What keeps you lingering month after 
month in the country ? What makes you feign illness and 
invent pretexts for delay ? Is it to win my poor patron’s 
money ? Be generous, my Lord, and spare his weakness for 
the sake of his wife and children. Is it to practise upon the 
simple heart of a virtuous lady ? You might as well storm 
the Tower single-handed. But you may blemish her name by 
light comments on it, or by lawless pursuits — and I don’t deny 
that ’tis in your power to make her unhappy. Spare these 
innocent people, and leave them.” 

“ By the Lord, I believe thou hast an eye to the pretty 
Puritan thyself. Master Harry,” says my Lord, with his reck- 
less, good-humoured laugh, and as if he had been listening 
with interest to the passionate appeal of the young man. 

Whisper, Harry. Art thou in love with her thyself? Hath 
tipsy Frank Esmond come by the way of all flesh ? ” 

“ My Lord, my Lord,” cried Harry, his face flushing and 
his eyes filling as he spoke, “ I never had a mother, but I love 
this lady as one. I worship her as a devotee worships a saint. 
To hear her name spoken lightly seems blasphemy to me. 
Would you dare think of your own mother so, or suffer any 
one so to speak of her ? It is a horror to me to fancy that any 
man should think of her impurely. I implore you, I beseech 
you, to leave her. Danger will come out of it.” 

“ Danger, psha ! ” says my Lord, giving a cut to the horses, 
which at this minute — for we were got on to the Downs — 
fairly ran off* into a gallop that no pulling could stop. The 
rein broke in Lord Mohun’s hands, and the furious beasts 
scampered madly forwards, the carriage swaying to and fro, 
and the persons within it holding on to the sides as best they 
might until, seeing a great ravine before them, where an upset 


Henry Esmond 141 

was inevitable, the two gentlemen leapt for their lives, each 
out of his side of the chaise. Harry Esmond was quit for a 
fall on the grass, which was so severe that it stunned him for 
a minute ; but he got up presently very sick, and bleeding at 
the nose, but with no other hurt. The Lord Mohun was not 
so fortunate ; he fell on his head against a stone, and lay on 
the ground, dead to all appearance. 

This misadventure happened as the gentlemen were on their 
return homewards ; and my Lord Castlewood, with his son 
and daughter, who were going out for a ride, met the ponies 
as they were galloping with the car behind, the broken traces 
entangling their heels, and my Lord’s people turned and 
stopped them. It was young Frank, who spied out Lord 
Mohun’s scarlet coat as he lay on the ground, and the party 
made up to that unfortunate gentleman and Esmond, who was 
now standing over him. His large periwig and feathered 
hat had fallen off, and he was bleeding profusely from a 
wound on the forehead, and looking, and being indeed, a 
corpse. 

‘‘ Great God ! he’s dead ! ” says my Lord. “ Ride, some 
one ; fetch a doctor — stay. I’ll go home and bring back 
Tusher; he knows surgery,” and my Lord, with his son after 
him, galloped away. 

They were scarce gone when Harry Esmond, who was in- 
deed but just come to himself, bethought him of a similar 
accident which he had seen on a ride from Newmarket to 
Cambridge, and taking off a sleeve of my Lord’s coat, Harry, 
with a penknife, opened a vein in his arm, and was greatly 
relieved, after a moment, to see the blood flow. He was near 
half-an-hour before he came to himself, by which time Doctor 
Tusher and little Frank arrived, and found my Lord not a 
corpse indeed, but as pale as one. 

After a time, when he was able to bear motion, they put my 
Lord upon a groom’s horse, and gave the other to Esmond, the 
men walking on each side of my Lord, to support him, if need 
were, and worthy Doctor Tusher with them. Little Frank 
and Harry rode together at a foot pace. 

When we rode together home, the boy said: ‘‘We 
met mamma, who was walking on the terrace with the 


142 The History of 

Doctor, and papa frightened her, and told her you were 
dead ” 

That I was dead ? ” asks Harry. 

Yes. Papa says : ‘ Here’s poor Harry killed, my dear 
on which mamma gives a great scream ; and oh, Harry, she 
drops down ; and I thought she was dead too. And you never 
saw such a way as papa was in : he swore one of his great 
oaths : and he turned quite pale ; and then he began to laugh 
somehow, and he told the Doctor to take his horse, and me to 
follow him j and we left him. And I looked back, and saw 
him dashing water out of the fountain on to mamma. Oh, she 
was so frightened ! ” 

Musing upon this curious history — for my Lord Mohun’s 
name was Henry too, and they called each other Frank and 
Harry often — and not a little disturbed and anxious, Esmond 
rode home. His dear lady was on the terrace still, one of her 
women with her, and my Lord no longer there. There are 
steps and a little door thence down into the road. My Lord 
passed, looking very ghastly, with a handkerchief over his head 
and without his fhat and periwig, which a groom carried ; but 
his politeness did not desert him, and he made a bow to the 
lady above. 

“ Thank Heaven, you are safe ! ” she said. 

‘‘ And so is Harry too, mamma,” says little Frank, — 
** huzzay ! ” 

Harry Esmond got off the horse to run to his mistress, as did 
little Frank, and one of the grooms took charge of the two 
beasts, while the other, hat and periwig in hand, walked 
by my Lord’s bridle to the front gate, which lay half a mile 
away. 

‘‘ Oh, my boy ! what a fright you have given me ! ” Lady 
Castlewood said, when Harry Esmond came up, greeting 
him with one of her shining looks, and a voice of tender 
welcome ; and she was so kind as to kiss the young man (’twas 
the second time she had so honoured him), and she walked 
into the house between him and her son, holding a hand of 
each. 


Henry Esmond 


H3 


Chapter XIV 

We Ride after him to London 

After a repose of a couple of days, the Lord Mohun was so 
far recovered of his hurt as to be able to announce his de- 
parture for the next morning ; when, accordingly, he took 
leave of Castlewood, proposing to ride to London by easy 
stages, and lie two nights upon the road. His host treated 
him with a studied and ceremonious courtesy, certainly 
different from my Lord’s usual frank and careless demeanour ; 
but there was no reason to suppose that the two Lords parted 
otherwise than good friends, though Harry Esmond remarked 
that my Lord Viscount only saw his guest in company with 
other persons, and seemed to avoid being alone with him. 
Nor did he ride any distance with Lord Mohun, as his cus- 
tom was with most of his friends, whom he was always 
eager to welcome and unwilling to lose ; but contented 
himself, when his Lordship’s horses were announced, and 
their owner appeared, booted for his journey, to take a 
courteous leave of the ladies of Castlewood, by following 
: the Lord Mohun downstairs to his horses, and by bowing and 
! wishing him a good-day in the courtyard. “ I shall see you 
; in London before very long, Mohun,” my Lord said, with 
j a smile; ‘‘ when we will settle our accounts together.” 

I ‘‘ Do not let them trouble you, Frank,” said the other good- 
' naturedly, and holding out his hand, looked rather surprised at 
the grim and stately manner in which his host received his 
! parting salutation ; and so, followed by his people, he rode 
I away. 

Harry Esmond was witness of the departure. It was very 
; different to my Lord’s coming, for which great preparation 
had been made (the old house putting on its best appearance 
to welcome its guest), and there was a sadness and constraint 
about all persons that day, which filled Mr Esmond with 
gloomy forebodings, and sad indefinite apprehensions. Lord 
Castlewood stood at the door watching his guest and his 
people as they went out under the arch of the outer gate. 


144 


The History of 


When he was there, Lord Mohun turned once more, my Lord 
Viscount slowly raised his beaver and bowed. His face wore 
a peculiar livid look, Harry thought. He cursed and kicked 
away his dogs, which came jumping about him— then he 
walked up to the fountain in the centre of the court, and 
leaned against a pillar and looked into the basin. As Esmond 
crossed over to his own room, late the chaplain’s, on the other 
side of the court, and turned to enter in at the low door, 
he saw Lady Castlewood looking through the curtains of the 
great window of the drawing-room overhead, at my Lord as 
he stood regarding the fountain. There was in the court a 
peculiar silence somehow; and the scene remained long in 
Esmond’s memory : — the sky bright overhead ; the buttresses 
of the building and the sundial casting shadow over the gilt 
memento mori inscribed underneath ; the two dogs, a black grey- 
hound and a spaniel nearly white, the one with his face up to 
the sun, and the other snuffing amongst the grass and stones, 
and my Lord leaning over the fountain, which was bubbling 
audibly. ’Tis strange how that scene, and the sound of that 
fountain, remained fixed on the memory of a man who has 
beheld a hundred sights of splendour, and danger too, of which 
he has kept no account. 

It was Lady Castlewood — she had been laughing all the morn- 
ing, and especially gay and lively before her husband and his 
guest — who as soon as the two gentlemen went together from 
her room, ran to Harry, the expression of her countenance 
quite changed now, and with a face and eyes full of care, and 
said, “Follow them, Harry; I am sure something has gone 
wrong,” And so it was that Esmond was made an eaves- 
dropper at this lady’s order : and retired to his own chamber, 
to give himself time in truth to try and compose a story which 
would soothe his mistress, for he could not but have his own 
apprehension that some serious quarrel was pending between 
the two gentlemen. 

And now for several days the little company at Castlewood 
sat at table as of evenings : this care, though unnamed and in- 
visible, being nevertheless present alway, in the minds of at 
least three persons there. My Lord was exceeding gentle 
and kind. Whenever he quitted the room, his wife’s eyes 


145 


Henry Esmond 

followed him. He behaved to her with a kind of mournful 
courtesy and kindness remarkable in one of his blunt ways and 
ordinary rough manner. He called her by her Christian name 
often and fondly, was very soft and gentle with the children, 
especially with the boy, whom he did not love, and being lax 
about church generally, he went thither and performed all the 
offices (down even to listening to Doctor Tusher’s sermon) 
with great devotion. 

“ He paces his room all night : what is it ? Henry, find out 
what it is,” Lady Castlewood said constantly to her young 
dependant. “ He has sent three letters to London,” she said 
another day. 

‘‘ Indeed, madam, they were to a lawyer,” Harry answered, 
who knew of these letters, and had seen a part of the corre- 
spondence, which related to a new loan my Lord was raising ; 
and when the young man remonstrated with his patron, my 
Lord said he ‘‘ was only raising money to pay off an old debt 
on the property which must be discharged.” 

Regarding the money. Lady Castlewood was not in the least 
anxious. Few fond women feel money-distressed ; indeed you 
can hardly give a woman a greater pleasure than to bid her 
pawn her diamonds for the man she loves ; and I remember 
hearing Mr Congreve say of my Lord Marlborough, that the 
reason why my Lord was so successful with women as a young 
1 man, was because he took money of them. “ There are few 
men who will make such a sacrifice for them,” says Mr Con- 
■ greve, who knew a part of the sex pretty well. 

Harry Esmond’s vacation was just over, and, as hath been 
I said, he was preparing to return to the University for his last 
i term before taking his degree and entering into the Church, 
i He had made up his mind for this office, not indeed with that 
reverence which becomes a man about to enter upon a duty so 
holy, but with a worldly spirit of acquiescence in the prudence 
of adopting that profession for his calling. But his reasoning 
was that he owed all to the family of Castlewood, and loved 
better to be near them than anywhere else in the world j that 
he might be useful to his benefactors, who had the utmost con- 
fidence in him and affection for him in return ; that he might 
aid in bringing up the young heir of the house and acting as 


146 The History of 

his governor ; that he might continue to be his dear patron’s 
and mistress’ friend and adviser, who both were pleased to say 
that they should ever look upon him as such ; and so, by 
making himself useful to those he loved best, he proposed to 
console himself for giving up of any schemes of ambition which 
he might have had in his own bosom. Indeed, his mistress had 
told him that she would not have him leave her ; and whatever 
she commanded was will to him. 

The Lady Castlewood’s mind was greatly relieved in the last 
few days of this well-remembered holiday time, by my Lord’s 
announcing one morning after the post had brought him letters 
from London, in a careless tone, that the Lord Mohun was 
gone to Paris, and was about to make a great journey in 
Europe ; and though Lord Castlewood’s own gloom did not 
wear off, or his behaviour alter, yet this cause of anxiety being 
removed from his lady’s mind, she began to be more jhopeful 
and easy in her spirits, striving too, with all her heart, and by 
all the means of soothing in her power, to call back my Lord’s 
cheerfulness and dissipate his moody humour. 

He accounted for it himself, by saying that he was out of 
health ; that he wanted to see his physician j that he would 
go to London and consult Dr Cheyne. It was agreed that 
his Lordship and Harry Esmond should make the journey as 
far as London together; and of a Monday morning, the llth 
of October, in the year 1700, they set forwards towards Lon- 
don on horseback. The day before being Sunday, and the 
rain pouring down, the family did not visit church; and at 
night my Lord read the service to his family very finely, and 
with a peculiar sweetness and gravity — speaking the parting 
benediction, Harry thought, as solemn as ever he heard it. 
And he kissed and embraced his wife and children before they 
went to their own chambers with more fondness than he 
was ordinarily wont to show, and with a solemnity and feel- 
ing of which they thought in after days with no small 
comfort. 

They took horse the next morning (after adieux from the 
family as tender as on the night previous), lay that night on the 
road, and entered London at nightfall ; my Lord going to the 
“ Trumpet,” in the Cockpit, Whitehall, a house used by the 


Henry Esmond 1 47 

military in his time as a young man, and accustomed by his 
Lordship ever since. 

An hour after my Lord’s arrival (which showed that his 
visit had been arranged beforehand), my Lord’s man of busi- 
ness arrived from Gray’s Inn ; and thinking that his patron 
might wish to be private with the lawyer, Esmond was for 
leaving them : but my Lord said his business was short ; in- 
troduced Mr Esmond particularly to the lawyer, who had 
been engaged for the family in the old lord’s time ; who 
said that he had paid the money, as desired that day, to my 
Lord Mohun himself, at his lodgings in Bow Street : that his 
Lordship had expressed some surprise, as it was not custom- 
ary to employ lawyers, he said, in such transactions between 
men of honour j but, nevertheless, he had returned my 
Lord Viscount’s note of hand, which he held at his client’s 
disposition. 

‘‘ I thought the Lord Mohun had been in Paris ? ” cried 
Mr Esmond, in great alarm and astonishment. 

** He is come back at my invitation,” said my Lord Viscount. 
“ We have accounts to settle together.” 

“ I pray Heaven they are over, sir,” says Esmond. 

‘‘ Oh, quite,” replied the other, looking hard at the young 
man. “ He was rather troublesome about that money which 
I told you I had lost to him at play. And now ’tis paid, and 
we are quits on that score, and we shall meet good friends again.” 

“ My Lord,” cried out Esmond, “lam sure you are deceiv- 
ing me, and that there is a quarrel between the Lord Mohun 
and you.” 

“ Quarrel — pish ! We shall sup together this very night 
and drink a bottle. Every man is ill-humoured who loses 
such a sum as I have lost. But now ’tis paid, and my anger 
is gone with it.” 

“ Where shall we sup, sir ^ ” says Harry. 

“ We ! Let some gentlemen wait till they are asked,” 
says my Lord Viscount, with a laugh. “ You go to Duke 
Street, and see Mr Betterton. You love the play, I know. 
Leave me to follow my own devices : and in the morning 
we’ll breakfast together, with what appetite we may, as the 
play says.” 


148 


The History of 

“ By G — ! my Lord, I will not leave you this night,” says 
Harry Esmond. “ I think I know the cause of your dispute. 
I swear to you ’tis nothing. On the very day the accident 
befell Lord Mohun, I was speaking to him about it. I know 
that nothing has passed but idle gallantry on his part.” 

“ You know that nothing has passed but idle gallantry 
between Lord Mohun and my wife,” says my Lord, in a 
thundering voice — ‘‘ you knew of this and did not tell 
me r 

“ I knew more of it than my dear mistress did herself, sir — 
a thousand times more. How was she, who was as innocent 
as a child, to know what was the meaning of the covert 
addresses of a villain ? ” 

“ A villain he is, you allow, and would have taken my wife 
away from me.” 

“ Sir, she is as pure as an angel,” cried young Esmond. 

Have I said a word against her ? ” shrieks out my Lord. 
‘‘ Did I ever doubt that she was pure ? It would have been 
the last day of her life when I did. Do you fancy I think 
that she would go astray ? No, she hasn’t passion enough for 
that. She neither sins nor forgives. I know her temper — 
and now I’ve lost her, by Heaven I love her ten thousand 
times more than ever I did — yes, when she was young and as 
beautiful as an angel — when she smiled at me in her old 
father’s house, and used to lie in wait for me there as I came 
from hunting — when I used to fling my head down on her 
little knees and cry like a child on her lap — and swear I would 
reform, and drink no more, and play no more, and follow 
women no more j when all the men of the Court used to be 
following her — when she used to look with her child more 
beautiful, by George, than the Madonna in the Queen’s 
Chapel. I am not good like her, I know it. Who is — by 
Heaven, who is ? I tired and wearied her, I know that very 
well. I could not talk to her. You men of wit and books 
could do that, and I couldn’t — I felt I couldn’t. Why, when 
you was but a boy of fifteen I could hear you two together 
talking your poetry and your books till I was in such a rage 
that I was fit to strangle you. But you were always a good 
lad, Harry, and I loved you, you know I did. And I felt she 


149 


Henry Esmond 

didn’t belong to me : and the children don’t. And I besotted 
myself, and gambled, and drank, and took to all sorts of devil- 
ries out of despair and fury. And now comes this Mohun, 
and she likes him, I know she likes him.” 

“ Indeed, and on my soul, you are wrong, sir,” Esmond 
cried. 

‘‘ She takes letters from him,” cries my Lord — “ look here, 
Harry,” and he pulled out a paper with a brown stain of blood 
upon it. “ It fell from him that day he wasn’t killed. One 
of the grooms picked it up from the ground and gave it to me. 

Here it is in their d d comedy jargon. ‘ Divine Gloriana 

— Why look so coldly on your slave who adores you ? Have 
you no compassion on the tortures you have seen me suffering ? 
Do you vouchsafe no reply to billets that are written with the 
blood of my heart ? ’ She had more letters from him.” 

‘‘ But she answered none,” cries Esmond. 

“ That’s not Mohun’s fault,” says my Lord, and I will be 
revenged on him, as God’s in heaven, I will.” 

“For a light word or two, will you risk your lady’s honour 
and your family’s happiness, my Lord ? ” Esmond interposed 
beseechingly. 

“ Psha ! there shall be no question of my wife’s honour,” 
said my Lord j “we can quarrel on plenty of grounds beside. 

I If I live, that villain will be punished ; if I fall, my family 
r will be only the better : there will only be a spendthrift the 
less to keep in the world : and Frank has better teaching than 
I his father. My mind is made up, Harry Esmond, and what- 
( ever the event is, I am easy about it. I leave my wife and you 
as guardians to the children.” 

j Seeing that my Lord was bent upon pursuing this quarrel, 

^ and that no entreaties would draw him from it, Harry Esmond 
(then of a hotter and more impetuous nature than now, when 
I care, and reflection, and grey hairs have calmed him) thought 
it was his duty to stand by his kind, generous patron, and 
5 said, “ My Lord, if you are determined upon war, you must 
|! not go into it alone. ’Tis the duty of our house to stand by 
I its chief; and I should neither forgive myself nor you if you 
did not call me, or I should be absent from you at a moment 
of danger.” 


150 The History of 

‘‘ Why, Harry, my poor boy, you are bred for a parson,” 
says my Lord, taking Esmond by the hand very kindly ; “ and 
it were a great pity that you should meddle in the matter.” 

‘‘ Your Lordship thought of being a churchman once,” Harry 
answered, ‘‘ and your father’s orders did not prevent him fight- 
ing at Castlewood against the Roundheads. Your enemies are 
mine, sir ; I can use the foils, as you have seen, indifferently 
well, and don’t think I shall be afraid when the buttons are 
taken off ’em.” And then Harry explained, with some blushes 
and hesitation (for the matter was delicate, and he feared lest, 
by having put himself forward in the quarrel, he might have 
offended his patron), how he had himself expostulated with 
the Lord Mohun, and proposed to measure swords with him if 
need were, and he could not be got to withdraw peaceably in 
this dispute. “ And I should have beat him, sir,” says Harry, 
laughing. ‘‘He never could parry that botte I brought from 
Cambridge. Let us have half-an-hour of it, and rehearse — I 
can teach it your Lordship : ’tis the most delicate point in the 
world, and if you miss it, your adversary’s sword is through 
you.” 

“By George, Harry, you ought to be the head of the 
house,” says my Lord gloomily. “ You had been a better 
Lord Castlewood than a lazy sot like me,” he added, drawing 
his hand across his eyes, and surveying his kinsman with very 
kind and affectionate glances. 

“ Let us take our coats off and have half-an-hour’s practice 
before nightfall,” says Harry, after thankfully grasping his 
patron’s manly hand. 

“ You are but a little bit of a lad,” says my Lord good- 
humouredly ; “ but, in faith, I believe you could do for that 
fellow. No, my boy,” he continued, “ I’ll have none of your 
feints and tricks of stabbing : I can use my sword pretty well 
too, and will fight my own quarrel my own way.” 

“ But I shall be by to see fair play ? ” cries Harry. 

“ Yes, God bless you — you shall be by.” 

“ When is it, sir ? ” says Harry, for he saw that the matter 
had been arranged privately and beforehand by my Lord. 

“ ’Tis arranged thus : I sent off a courier to Jack Westbury 
to say that I wanted him specially. He knows for what, and 


Henry Esmond 1 5 1 

will be here presently, and drink part of that bottle of sack. 
Then we shall go to the theatre in Duke Street, where we 
shall meet Mohun ; and then we shall all go sup at the ‘ Rose ’ 
or the ‘ Greyhound.’ Then we shall call for cards, and there 
will be probably a difference over the cards — and then, God 
help us ! — either a wicked villain and traitor shall go out of the 
world, or a poor worthless devil, that doesn’t care to remain in 
it. I am better away, Hal — my wife will be all the happier 
when I am gone,” says my Lord, with a groan, that tore the 
heart of Harry Esmond, so that he fairly broke into a sob over 
his patron’s kind hand. 

The business was talked over with Mohun before he left 
home — Castle wood I mean ” — my Lord went on. “ I took 
the letter in to him, which I had read, and I charged him with 
his villainy, and he could make no denial of it, only he said 
that my wife was innocent.” 

“ And so she is ; before heaven, my Lord, she is ! ” cries 
Harry. 

“ No doubt, no doubt. They always are,” says my Lord. 
‘‘ No doubt, when she heard he was killed, she fainted from 
accident.” 

‘‘ But, my Lord, my name is Harry,” cried out Esmond, 
burning red. You told my Lady, ‘Harry was killed! ’” 

“ Damnation ! shall I fight you too .? ” shouts my Lord in a 
fury. “ Are you, you little serpent, warmed by my fire, going 
to sting — you ? — No, my boy, you’re an honest boy •, you are 
a good boy.” (And here he broke from rage into tears even 
more cruel to see.) “ You are an honest boy, and I love 
you ; and, by heavens, I am so wretched that I don’t care 
what sword it is that ends me. Stop, here’s Jack Westbury. 
Well, Jack I Welcome, old boy I This is my kinsman, Harry 
Esmond.” 

“Who brought your bowls for you at Castlewood, sir,” 
says Harry, bowing ; and the three gentlemen sat down and 
drank of that bottle of sack which was prepared for them. 

“ Harry is number three,” says my Lord. “ You needn’t 
be afraid of him. Jack.” And the Colonel gave a look, as 
much as to say, “Indeed, he don’t look as if I need.” And 
then my Lord explained what he had only told by hints before,. 


152 


The History of 

When he quarrelled with Lord Mohun he was indebted to his 
Lordship in a sum of sixteen hundred pounds, for which Lord 
Mohun said he proposed to wait until my Lord Viscount should 
pay him. My Lord had raised the sixteen hundred pounds 
and sent them to Lord Mohun that morning, and before quitting 
home had put his affairs into order, and was now quite ready 
to abide the issue of the quarrel. 

When we had drunk a couple of bottles of sack, a coach 
was called, and the three gentlemen went to the Duke’s Play- 
house, as agreed. The play was one of Mr Wycherley’s — 
‘‘ Love in a Wood.” 

Harry Esmond has thought of that play ever since with a 
kind of terror, and of Mrs Bracegirdle, the actress who per- 
formed the girl’s part in the comedy. She was disguised as a 
page, and came and stood before the gentlemen as they sat on 
the stage, and looked over her shoulder with a pair of arch 
black eyes, and laughed at my Lord, and asked what ailed the 
gentleman from the country, and had he had bad news from 
Bullock fair .? 

Between the acts of the play the gentlemen crossed over 
and conversed freely. There were two of Lord Mohun’s 
party. Captain Macartney, in a military habit, and a gentleman 
in a suit of blue velvet and silver in a fair periwig, with a 
rich fall of point of Venice lace — my Lord the Earl of Warwick 
and Holland. My Lord had a paper of oranges, which he ate 
and offered to the actresses, joking with them. And Mrs 
Bracegirdle, when my Lord Mohun said something rude, 
turned on him, and asked him what he did there, and whether 
he and his friends had come to stab anybody else, as they 
did poor Will Mountford ? My Lord’s dark face grew darker 
at this taunt, and wore a mischievous fatal look. They that 
saw it remembered it, and said so afterward. 

When the play was ended the two parties joined company ; 
and my Lord Castlewood then proposed that they should go 
to a tavern and sup. Lockit’s, the “ Greyhound,” in Charing 
Cross, was the house selected. All six marched together that 
^Vay ; the three lords going ahead. Lord Mohun’s captain, and 
Colonel Westbury, and Harry Esmond walking behind them. 
As they walked, Westbury told Harry Esmond about his old 


153 


Henry Esmond 

friend Dick the Scholar, who had got promotion, and was 
Cornet of the Guards, and had wrote a book called the 
** Christian Hero,” and had all the Guards to laugh at him 
for his pains, for the Christian Hero was breaking the com- 
mandments constantly, Westbury said, and had fought one or 
two duels already. And, in a lower tone, Westbury besought 
young Mr Esmond to take no part in the quarrel. “ There 
was no need for more seconds than one,” said the Colonel, 
“and the Captain or Lord Warwick might easily with- 
draw.” But Harry said no ; he was bent on going through 
with the business. Indeed, he had a plan in his head, 
which, he thought, might prevent my Lord Viscount from 
engaging. 

They went in at the bar of the tavern, and desired a private 
room and wine and cards, and when the drawer had brought 
these, they began to drink and call healths, and as long as the 
servants were in the room appeared very friendly. 

Harry Esmond’s plan was no other than to engage in talk 
with Lord Mohun, to insult him, and so get the first of the 
quarrel. So when cards were proposed he offered to play. 
“ Psha ! ” says my Lord Mohun (whether wishing to save 
■j Harry or not choosing to try the botte de Jesuite, it is not to be 
i known) ; “ young gentlemen from College should not play 
: these stakes. You are too young.” 

“ Who dares say I am too young ? ” broke out Harry. “ Is 
your Lordship afraid ” 
i “ Afraid ! ” cries out Mohun. 

j But my good Lord Viscount saw the move. “ I’ll play you 
for ten moidores, Mohun,” says he. “ You silly boy, we don’t 
play for groats here as you do at Cambridge.” And Harry, 

I who had no such sum in his pocket (for his half-year’s salary 
1 was always pretty well spent before it was due), fell back with 
i| rage and vexation in his heart that he had not money enough 
j to stake. 

I “ I’ll stake the young gentleman a crown,” says the Lord 
j Mohun’s captain. 

I “ I thought crowns were rather scarce with the gentlemen 
j of the army,” says Harry. 

! “Do they birch at College ? ” says the Captain. 


154 


The History of 

They birch fools,” says Harry, “and they cane bullies, 
and they fling puppies into the water.” 

“ Faith, then, there’s some escapes drowning,” says 
the Captain, who was an Irishman ; and all the gentle- 
men began to laugh, and made poor Harry only more 
angry. 

My Lord Mohun presently snuffed a candle. It was when 
the drawers brought in fresh bottles and glasses and were in 
the room — on which my Lord Viscount said, “ The deuce take 
you, Mohun, how damned awkward you are ! Light the 
candle, you drawer.” 

“ Damned awkward is a damned awkward expression, my 
Lord,” says the other. “ Town gentlemen don’t use such 
words, or ask pardon if they do.” 

“ I’m a country gentleman,” says my Lord Viscount. 

“ I see it by your manner,” says my Lord Mohun. “ No 
man shall say damned awkward to me.” 

“ I fling the words in your face, my Lord,” says the other ; 
“ shall I send the cards too 

“ Gentlemen, gentlemen ! before the servants ? ” cry out 
Colonel Westbury and my Lord Warwick in a breath. The 
drawers go out of the room hastily. They tell the people 
below of the quarrel upstairs. 

“ Enough has been said,” says Colonel Westbury. “ Will 
your Lordships meet to-morrow morning ? ” 

“ Will my Lord Castle wood withdraw his words ? ” asks 
the Earl of Warwick. 

“ My Lord Castlewood will be first,” says Colonel 

Westbury. 

“ Then we have nothing for it. Take notice, gentlemen, 
there have been outrageous words — reparation asked and 
refused.” 

“ And refused,” says my Lord Castlewood, putting on 
his hat. 

“ Where shall the meeting be ? and when ? ” 

“Since my Lord refuses me satisfaction, which I deeply 
regret, there is no time so good as now,” says my Lord Mohun. 
“ Let us have chairs and go to Leicester Field.” 

“ Are your Lordship and I to have the honour of exchang- 


Henry Esmond 155 

ing a pass or two ? ” says Colonel Westbury, with a low bow 
to my Lord of Warwick and Holland. 

‘‘It is an honour for me,” says my Lord, with a profound 
congee, “to be matched with a gentleman who has been at 
Mons and Namur.” 

“ Will your Reverence permit me to give you a lesson } ” 
says the Captain. 

“ Nay, nay, gentlemen, two on a side are plenty,” says 
Harry’s patron. “ Spare the boy. Captain Macartney,” and 
he shook Harry’s hand — for the last time, save one, in his 
life. 

At the bar of the tavern all the gentlemen stopped, and my 
Lord Viscount said, laughing, to the barwoman, that those 
cards set people sadly a-quarrelling ; but that the dispute was 
^over now, and the parties were all going away to my Lord 
Mohun’s house in Bow Street, to drink a bottle more before 
going to bed. , 

A half-dozen of chairs were now called, and the six gentle- 
men stepping into them, the word was privately given to the 
chairmen to go to Leicester Field, where the gentlemen were 
set down opposite the “ Standard Tavern.” It was midnight, 
and the town was abed by this time, and only a few lights in 
the windows of the houses ; but the night was bright enough 
for the unhappy purpose which the disputants came about ; 
and so all six entered into that fatal square, the chairmen 
standing without the railing and keeping the gate, lest any 
person should disturb the meeting. 

All that happened there hath been matter of public notoriety, 
and is recorded, for warning to lawless men, in the annals 
of our country. After being engaged for not more than a 
couple of minutes as Harry Esmond thought (though being 
occupied at the time with his own adversary’s point, which was 
active, he may not have taken a good note of time), a cry 
from the chairmen without, who were smoking their pipes, 
and leaning over the railings of the field as they watched 
the dim combat within, announced that some catastrophe had 
happened, which caused Esmond to drop his sword and look 
round, at which moment his enemy wounded him in the 
right hand. But the young man did not heed this hurt much, 


156 The History of 

and ran up to the place where he saw his dear master was 
down. 

My Lord Mohun was standing over him. 

‘‘ Are you much hurt, Frank ? ” he asked, in a hollow 
voice. 

“ I believe Fm a dead man,” my Lord said from the 
ground. 

No, no, not so,” says the other ; “ and I call God to 
witness, Frank Esmond, that I would have asked your pardon, 
had you but given me a chance. In — in the first cause of our 
falling out, I swear that no one was to blame but me, and — 
and that my Lady ” 

“ Hush ! ” says my poor Lord Viscount, lifting himself on 
his elbow and speaking faintly. ** ’Twas a dispute about the 
cards — the cursed cards. Harry, my boy, are you wounded, 
too ? God help thee ! I loved thee, Harry, and thou must 
watch over my little Frank — and — and carry this little heart to 
my wife.” 

And here my dear Lord felt in his breast for a locket he 
wore there, and, in the act, fell back fainting. 

We were all at this terrified, thinking him dead ; but 
Esmond and Colonel Westbury bade the chairmen come into 
the field ; and so my Lord was carried to one Mr Aimes, a 
surgeon, in Long Acre, who kept a bath, and there the house 
was wakened up, and the victim of this quarrel carried in. 

My Lord Viscount was put to bed, and his wound looked 
to by the surgeon, who seemed both kind and skilful. When 
he had looked to my Lord, he bandaged up Harry Esmond’s 
hand (who, from loss of blood, had fainted too, in the house, 
and may have been sometime unconscious); and when the 
young man came to himself, you may be sure he eagerly 
asked what news there was of his dear patron ; on which 
the surgeon carried him to the room where the Lord Castle- 
wood lay ; who had already sent for a priest ; and desired 
earnestly, they said, to speak with his kinsman. He was lying 
on a bed, very pale and ghastly, with that fixed, fatal look 
in his eyes, which betokens death ; and faintly beckoning 
all the other persons away from him with his hand, and 
crying out “ Only Harry Esmond,” the hand fell powerless 


Henry Esmond 157 

down on the coverlet, as Harry came forward and knelt 
down and kissed it. 

“ Thou art all but a priest, Harry,” my Lord Viscount 
gasped out, with . a faint smile, and pressure of his cold 
hand. “ Are they all gone ? Let me make thee a death- 
bed confession.” 

And with sacred Death waiting, as it were, at the bed-foot, 
as an awful witness of his words, the poor dying soul gasped 
out his last wishes in respect of his family ; — his humble pro- 
fession of contrition for his faults ; — and his charity towards 
the world he was leaving. Some things he said concerned 
Harry Esmond as much as they astonished him. And my 
Lord Viscount, sinking visibly, was in the midst of these 
strange confessions, when the ecclesiastic for whom my Lord 
had sent, Mr Atterbury, arrived. 

This gentleman had reached to no great Church dignity as 
yet, but was only preacher at St Bride’s, drawing all the town 
thither by his eloquent sermons. He was godson to my Lord, 
who had been pupil to his father ; had paid a visit to Castle- 
wood from Oxford more than once ; and it was by his advice, 
I think, that Harry Esmond was sent to Cambridge, rather 
i than to Oxford, of which place Mr Atterbury, though a 
distinguished member, spoke but ill. 

Our messenger found the good priest already at his books 
at five o’clock in the morning, and he followed the man eageriy 
to the house where my poor Lord Viscount lay — Esmond 
watching him, and taking his dying words from his mouth. 

My Lord, hearing of Mr Atterbury’s arrival, and squeezing 
Esmond’s hand, asked to be alone with the priest ; and Esmond 
left them there for this solemn interview. You may be sure 
that his own prayers and grief accompanied that dying bene- 
factor. My Lord had said to him that which confounded the 
' young man — informed him of a secret which greatly concerned 
him. Indeed, after hearing it, he had had good cause for 
! doubt and dismay ; for mental anguish as well as resolution. 

[ While the colloquy between Mr Atterbury and his dying 
penitent took place within, an immense contest of perplexity 
was agitating Lord Castlewood’s young companion. 

At the end of an hour — it may be more — Mr Atterbury 


ijS The History of 

came out of the room, looking very hard at Esmond, and 
holding a paper. 

“He is on the brink of God’s awful judgment,” the priest 
whispered. “ He has made his breast clean to me. He 
forgives and believes, and makes restitution. Shall it be in 
public ? Shall we call a witness to sign it ? ” 

“ God knows,” sobbed out the young man, “ my dearest 
Lord has only done me kindness all his life.” 

The priest put the paper into Esmond’s hand. He looked 
at it. It swam before his eyes. 

“ ’Tis a confession,” he said. 

“ ’Tis as you please,” said Mr Atterbury. 

There was a fire in the room, where the cloths were drying 
for the baths, and there lay a heap in a corner, saturated with 
the blood of my dear Lord’s body. Esmond went to the fire, 
and threw the paper into it. ’Twas a great chimney with 
glazed Dutch tiles. How we remember such trifles in such 
awful moments ! — the scrap of the book that we have read in 
a great grief — the taste of that last dish that we have eaten 
before a duel, or some such supreme meeting or parting. On 
the Dutch tiles at the bagnio was a rude picture representing 
Jacob in hairy gloves, cheating Isaac of Esau’s birthright. 
The burning paper lighted it up. 

“ ’Tis only a confession, Mr Atterbury,” said the young 
man. He leaned his head against the mantelpiece ; a burst 
of tears came to his eyes. They were the first he had 
shed as he sat by his lord, scared by this calamity, 
and more yet by what the poor dying gentleman had told 
him, and shocked to think that he should be the agent 
of bringing this double misfortune on those he loved 
best. 

“ Let us go to him,” said Mr Esmond. And accordingly 
they went into the next chamber, where by this time the 
dawn had broke, which showed my Lord’s pale face and wild 
appealing eyes, that wore that awful fatal look of coming dis- 
solution. The surgeon was with him. He went into the 
chamber as Atterbury came out thence. My Lord Viscount 
turned round his sick eyes towards Esmond. It choked the 
other to hear that rattle in his throat. 










Henry Esmond 159 

‘‘ My Lord Viscount,” says Mr Atterbury, “ Mr Esmond 
wants no witnesses, and hath burned the paper.” 

“ My dearest master ! ” Esmond said, kneeling down, and 
taking his hand and kissing it. 

My Lord Viscount sprang up in his bed, and flung his arms 

round Esmond. ** God bl — bless ” was all he said. The 

blood rushed from his mouth, deluging the young man. My 
dearest Lord was no more. He was gone with a blessing on 
his lips, and love and repentance and kindness in his manly 
heart. 

“ Benedict! benedicentes,” says Mr Atterbury, and the 
young man, kneeling at the bedside, groaned out an “Amen.” 

“ Who shall take the news to her .? ” was Mr Esmond’s 
next thought. And on this he besought Mr Atterbury to • 
bear the tidings to Castlewood. He could not face his mistress 
himself with those dreadful news. Mr Atterbury complying 
kindly, Esmond writ a hasty note on his table-book to my 
Lord’s man, bidding him get the horses for Mr Atterbury, 
and ride with him, and send Esmond’s own valise to the 
Gatehouse prison, whither he resolved to go and give 
himself up. 


4 


Book II I 

Contains Mr Esmond's Military Life^ and other matters j 

appertaining to the Esmond Family j 

1 

Chapter I ' 

I am in Prison, and Visited, but not Consoled there 

Those may imagine, who have seen death untimely strike 
down persons revered and beloved, and know how unavailing 
consolation is, what was Harry Esmond’s anguish after being 
an actor in that ghastly midnight scene of blood and homicide, j 
He could not, he felt, have faced his dear mistress, and told ; 
her that story. He was thankful that kind Atterbury con- 
sented to break the sad news to her : but besides his grief, 
which he took into prison with him, he had that in his heart 
which secretly cheered and consoled him. 

A great secret had been told to Esmond by his unhappy 
stricken kinsman, lying on his death-bed. Were he to disclose 
it, as in equity and honour he might do, the discovery would 
but bring greater grief upon those whom he loved best in the 
world, and who were sad enough already. Should he bring . 
down shame and perplexity upon all those beings to whom he 
was attached by so many tender ties of affection and gratitude ? 
degrade his father’s widow ? impeach and sully his father’s 1 
and kinsman’s honour ? and for what ? For a barren title, to t 
be worn at the expense of an innocent boy, the son of his 
dearest benefactress. He had debated this matter in his con- 
science, whilst his poor lord was making his dying confession. , 
On one side were ambition, temptation, justice even; but! 
love, gratitude, and fidelity pleaded on the other. And when j 
the struggle was over in Harry’s mind, a glow of righteous] 
happiness filled it ; and it was with grateful tears in his eyes^ 

i6o 


1 


Henry Esmond 1 6 1 

that he returned thanks to God for that decision which he had 
been enabled to make. 

** When I was denied by my own blood,” thought he, ‘‘ these 
dearest friends received and cherished me. When I was a 
nameless orphan myself, and needed a protector, I found one 
in yonder kind soul, who has gone to his account repenting of 
the innocent wrong he has done.” 

And with this consoling thought he went away to give him- 
self up at the prison, after kissing the cold lips of his benefactor. 

It was on the third day after he had come to the Gatehouse 
prison (where he lay in no small pain from his wound, which 
inflamed and ached severely), and with those thoughts and 
resolutions that have been just spoke of, to depress, and yet 
to console him, that H. Esmond’s keeper came and told him 
that a visitor was asking for him, and though he could not 
see her face, which was enveloped in a black hood, her 
whole figure, too, being veiled and covered with the deepest 
mourning, Esmond knew at once that his visitor was his dear 
mistress. 

He got up from his bed, where he was lying, being very 
weak ; and advancing towards her as the retiring keeper shut 
the door upon him and his guest in that sad place, he put 
forward his left hand (for the right was wounded and band- 
aged), and he would have taken that kind one of his mistress, 
which had done so many offices of friendship for him for so 
many years. 

But the Lady Castlewood went back from him, putting back 
her hood, and leaning against the great stanchioned door which 
the gaoler had just closed upon them. Her face was ghastly 
white, as Esmond saw it, looking from the hood ; and her 
eyes, ordinarily so sweet and tender, were fixed on him with 
such a tragic glance of woe and anger, as caused the young 
man, unaccustomed to unkindness from that person, to avert 
his own glances from her face. 

“ And this, Mr Esmond,” she said, ** is where I see you ; 
and ’tis to this you have brought me ! ” 

‘‘You have come to console me in my calamity, madam,” 
said he (though, in truth, he scarce knew how to address her, 
his emotions at beholding her so overpowered him). 


iGi 


The History of 

She advanced a little, but stood silent and trembling, look- 
ing out at him from her black draperies, with her small white 
hands clasped together, and quivering lips and hollow eyes. 

‘‘ Not to reproach me,” he continued, after a pause. “ My 
grief is sufficient as it is.” 

“Take back your hand — do not touch me with it !” she 
cried. “ Look ! there’s blood on it ! ” 

“ I wish they had taken it all,” said Esmond ; “if you are 
unkind to me.” 

“ Where is my husband ? ” she broke out. “ Give me back 
my husband, Henry ! Why did you stand by at midnight and 
see him murdered ? Why did the traitor escape who did it ? 
You, the champion of our house, who offered to die for us ! 
You that he loved and trusted, and to whom I confided him — 
you that vowed devotion and gratitude, and I believed you — 
yes, I believed you — why are you here, and my noble Francis 
gone ? Why did you come among us ? You have only 
brought us grief and sorrow ; and repentance, bitter, bitter 
repentance, as a return for our love and kindness. Did I ever 
do you a wrong, Henry ? You were but an orphan child 
when I first saw you — ;when he first saw you, who was so 
good, and noble, and trusting. He would have had you sent 
away, but, like a foolish woman, I besought him to let you 
stay. And you pretended to love us, and we believed you — 
and you made our house wretched, and my husband’s heart 
went from me : and I lost him through you — I lost him — the 
husband of my youth, I say. I worshipped him : you know I 
worshipped him — and he was changed to me. He was no 
more my Francis of old — my dear dear soldier. He loved me 
before he saw you ; and I loved him. Oh, God is my witness 
how I loved him ! Why did he not send you from among us ? 
’Twas only his kindness that could refuse me nothing then. 
And, young as you were — yes, and weak and alone — there 
was evil, I knew there was evil, in keeping you. I read it in 
your face and eyes. I saw that they boded harm to us — and 
it came, I knew it would. Why did you not die when you 
had the small-pox — and I came myself and watched you, and 
you didn’t know me in your delirium — and you called out for 
me, though I was there at your side ? All that has happened 













AND A5 SHE SPOKE, SHE LOOKED AT HIM' 
WITH A GLANCE SO FOND AND SAD 

BOOK-IU CHAR I 






Henry Esmond 1 63 

since was a just judgment on my wicked heart — my wicked 
jealous heart. Oh, I am punished — awfully punished ! My 
husband lies in his blood — murdered for defending me, my 
kind, kind, generous lord — and you were by, and you let him 
die, Henry ! ” 

These words, uttered in the wildness of her grief by one 
I who was ordinarily quiet, and spoke seldom except with a 
I gentle smile and a soothing tone, rung in Esmond’s ear ; and 
; ’tis said that he repeated many of them in the fever into which 
1 he now fell from his wound, and perhaps from the emotion 
I which such passionate, undeserved upbraidings caused him. 
li It seemed as if his very sacrifices and love for this lady and 
1 ; her family were to turn to evil and reproach : as if his presence 
I amongst them was indeed a cause of grief, and the continuance 
' of his life but woe and bitterness to theirs. As the Lady 
Castlewood spoke bitterly, rapidly, without a tear, he never 
offered a word of appeal or remonstrance ; but sat at the foot 
; of his prison-bed, stricken only with the more pain at thinking 
I it was that soft and beloved hand which should stab him so 
!i cruelly, and powerless against her fatal sorrow. Her words 
as she spoke struck the chords of all his memory, and the 
i whole of his boyhood and youth passed within him ; whilst 
his lady, so fond and gentle but yesterday — this good angel 
whom he had loved and worshipped — stood before him, 
pursuing him with keen words and aspect malign. 

“ I wish I were in my Lord’s place,” he groaned out. ‘‘ It 
was not my fault that I was not there, madam. But Fate is 
stronger than all of us, and willed what has come to pass. It 
had been better for me to have died when I had the illness.” 

“ Yes, Henry,” said she — and as she spoke she looked at 
him with a glance that was at once so fond and so sad, that 
the young man, tossing up his arms, wildly fell back, hiding 
his head in the coverlet of the bed. As he turned, he struck 
against the wall with his wounded hand, displacing the 
ligature ; and he felt the blood rushing again from the 
wound. He remembered feeling a secret pleasure at the 
accident — and thinking, ‘‘ Suppose I were to end now, who 
would grieve for me ? ” 

This hemorrhage, or the grief and despair in which the 


164 The History of 

luckless young man was at the time of the accident, must 
have brought on a deliquium presently; for he had scarce 
any recollection afterwards, save of some one, his mistress 
probably, seizing his hand — and then of the buzzing noise 
in his ears as he awoke, with two or three persons of the 
prison around his bed, whereon he lay in a pool of blood 
from his arm. 

It was now bandaged up again by the prison surgeon, who 
happened to be in the place ; and the governor’s wife and 
servant, kind people both, were with the patient. Esmond saw 
his mistress still in the room when he awoke from his trance ; 
but she went away without a word ; though the governor’s 
wife told him that she sat in her room for some time afterward, 
and did not leave the prison until she heard that Esmond was 
likely to do well. 

Days afterwards, when Esmond was brought out of a fever 
which he had, and which attacked him that night pretty 
sharply, the honest keeper’s wife brought her patient a hand- 
kerchief fresh washed and ironed, and at the corner of which 
he recognised his mistress’ well-known cipher and viscountess’s j 
crown. “The lady had bound it round his arm when he | 
fainled, and before she called for help,” the keeper’s wife ] 
said. “ Poor lady ! she took on sadly about her husband. ; 
He has been buried to-day, and a many of the coaches of the | 
nobility went with him — my Lord Marlborough’s and my Lord \ 
Sunderland’s, and many of the officers of the Guards, in which ; 
he served in the old King’s time : and my Lady has been with 
her two children to the King at Kensington, and asked for 
justice against my Lord Mohun, who is in hiding, and my Lord 
the Earl of Warwick and Holland, who is ready to give himself 
up and take his trial.” 

Such was the news, coupled with assertions about her own 
honesty and that of Molly her maid, who would never have 
stolen a certain trumpery gold sleeve-button of Mr Esmond’s 
that was missing after his fainting-fit, that the keeper’s wife 
brought to her lodger. His thoughts followed to that un- 
timely grave the brave heart, the kind friend, the gallant 
gentleman, honest of word and generous of thought if feeble 
of purpose (but are his betters much stronger than he ?), who 


Henry Esmond 1 65 

had given him bread and shelter when he had none ; home and 
love when he needed them ; and who, if he had kept one vital 
secret from him, had done that of which he repented ere dying 
— a wrong indeed, but one followed by remorse, and occasioned 
by almost irresistible temptation. 

Esmond took the handkerchief when his nurse left him, and 
very likely kissed it, and looked at the bauble embroidered in 
the corner. “ It has cost thee grief enough,” he thought, 
“ dear lady, so loving and so tender. Shall I take it from thee 
and thy children ? No, never ! Keep it, and wear it, my little 
Frank, my pretty boy ! If I cannot make a name for myself, 
I can die without one. Some day, when my dear mistress sees 
my heart, I shall be righted ; or if not here or now, why, else- 
where; where Honour doth not follow us, but where love 
reigns perpetual.” 

’Tis needless to relate here, as the reports of the lawyers 
already have chronicled them, the particulars or issue of that 
trial which ensued upon my Lord Castlewood’s melancholy 
homicide. Of the two lords engaged in that sad matter, the 
second, my Lord the Earl of Warwick and Holland, who had 
been engaged with Colonel Westbury, and wounded by him, 
was found not guilty by his peers, before whom he was tried 
(under the presidence of the Lord Steward, Lord Somers) ; 
and the principal, the Lord Mohun, being found guilty of 
the manslaughter (which, indeed, was forced upon him, and 
of which he repented most sincerely), pleaded his clergy, and 
so was discharged without any penalty. The widow of the 
slain nobleman, as it was told us in prison, showed an extra- 
ordinary spirit ; and, though she had to wait for ten years 
before her son was old enough to compass it, declared she 
would have revenge of her husband’s murderer. So much 
and suddenly had grief, anger, and misfortune appeared to 
change her. But fortune, good or ill, as I take it, does not 
change men and women. It but develops their character. 
As there are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that 
he does not know till he takes up the pen to write, so the 
heart is a secret even to him (or her) who has it in his own 
breast. Who hath not found himself surprised into revenge, 
or action, or passion, for good or evil, whereof the seeds 


1 66 The History of 

lay within him, latent and unsuspected, until the occasion 
called them forth ? With the death of her lord, a change 
seemed to come over the whole conduct and mind of Lady 
Castlewood ; but of this we shall speak in the right season 
and anon. 

The lords being tried then before their peers at West- 
minster, according to their privilege, being brought from the 
Tower with state processions and barges, and accompanied by 
lieutenants and axemen, the commoners engaged in that melan- 
choly fray took their trial at Newgate, as became them ; and, 
being all found guilty, pleaded likewise their benefit of clergy. 
The sentence, as we all know in these cases, is, that the 
culprit lies a year in prison, or during the King’s pleasure, and 
is burned in the hand, or only stamped with a cold iron ; or 
this part of the punishment is altogether remitted at the grace 
of the Sovereign. So Harry Esmond found himself a criminal 
and a prisoner at two-and-twenty years old ; as for the two 
colonels, his comrades, they took the matter very lightly. 
Duelling was a part of their business ; and they could not in 
honour refuse any invitations of that sort. 

But the case was different with Mr Esmond. His life was 
changed by that stroke of the sword which destroyed his kind 
patron’s. As he lay in prison, old Doctor Tusher fell ill and 
died ; and Lady Castlewood appointed Thomas Tusher to the 
vacant living ; about the filling of which she had a thousand 
times fondly talked to Harry Esmond ; how they never should 
part ; how he should educate her boy ; how to be a country 
clergyman, like saintly George Herbert or pious Doctor Ken, 
was the happiest and greatest lot in life ; how (if he were 
obstinately bent on it, though, for her part, she owned rather 
to holding Queen Bess’s opinion, that a bishop should have 
no wife, and if not a bishop why a clergyman ?) she would 
find a good wife for Harry Esmond ; and so on, with a 
hundred pretty prospects told by fireside evenings, in fond 
prattle, as the children played about the hall. All these plans 
were overthrown now. Thomas Tusher wrote to Esmond, as 
he lay in prison, announcing that his patroness had conferred 
upon him the living his reverend father had held for many 
years ; that she never, after the tragical events which had 


Henry Esmond 1 67 

occurred (whereof Tom spoke with a very edifying horror), 
could see in the revered Tusher’s pulpit, or at her son’s table, 
the man who was answerable for the father’s life ; that her 
Ladyship bade him to say that she prayed for her kinsman’s 
repentance and his worldly happiness ; that he was free to 
command her aid for any scheme of life which he might pro- 
pose to himself ; but that on this side of the grave she would 
see him no more. And Tusher, for his own part, added that 
Harry should have his prayers as a friend of his youth, and 
commended him whilst he was in prison to read certain works 
of theology, which his Reverence pronounced to be very 
wholesome for sinners in his lamentable condition. 

And this was the return for a life of devotion — this the end 
of years of affectionate intercourse and passionate fidelity ! 
Harry would have died for his patron, and was held as little 
better than his murderer : he had sacrificed, she did not know 
how much, for his mistress, and she threw him aside ; he had 
endowed her family with all they had, and she talked about 
giving him alms as to a menial ! The grief for his patron’s 
loss : the pains of his own present position, and doubts as to 
the future : all these were forgotten under the sense of the 
consummate outrage which he had to endure, and overpowered 
by the superior pang of that torture. 

He writ back a letter to Mr Tusher from his prison, con- 
gratulating his Reverence upon his appointment to the living 
of Castlewood : sarcastically bidding him to follow in the foot- 
steps of his admirable father, whose gown had descended upon 
him ; thanking her Ladyship for her offer of alms, which he 
said he should trust not to need ; and beseeching her to re- 
member that, if ever her determination should change towards 
him, he would be ready to give her proofs of a fidelity which 
had never wavered, and which ought never to have been 
questioned by that house. And if we meet no more, or 
only as strangers in this world,” Mr Esmond concluded, “ a 
sentence against the cruelty and injustice of which I disdain to 
appeal ; hereafter she will know who was faithful to her, and 
whether she had any cause to suspect the love and devotion of 
her kinsman and servant.” 

After the sending of this letter, the poor young fellow’s 


1 68 The History of 

mind was more at ease than it had been previously. The 
blow had been struck, and he had borne it. His cruel god- 
dess had shaken her wings and fled: and left him alone and 
friendless, but virtute sud. And he had to bear him up, at 
once the sense of his right and the feeling of his wrongs, his 
honour and his misfortune. As I have seen men waking and 
running to arms at a sudden trumpet, before emergency a 
manly heart leaps up resolute ; meets the threatening danger 
with undaunted countenance ; and, whether conquered or con- 
quering, faces it always. Ah ! no man knows his strength 
or his weakness, till occasion proves them. If there be some 
thoughts and actions of his life from the memory of which 
a man shrinks with shame, sure there are some which he may 
be proud to own and remember : forgiven injuries, conquered 
temptations (now and then), and difficulties vanquished by 
endurance. 

It was these thoughts regarding the living, far more than 
any great poignancy of grief respecting the dead, which 
affected Harry Esmond whilst in prison after his trial ; but it 
may be imagined that he could take no comrade of misfortune 
into the confidence of his feelings, and they thought it was 
remorse and sorrow for his patron’s loss which affected the 
young man, in error of which opinion he chose to leave them. 
As a companion he was so moody and silent that the two 
officers, his fellow-sufferers, left him to himself mostly, liked 
little very likely what they knew of him, consoled themselves 
with dice, cards, and the bottle, and whiled away their own 
captivity in their own way. It seemed to Esmond as if he 
lived years in that prison : and was changed and aged when he 
came out of it. At certain periods of life we live years of 
emotion in a few weeks — and look back on those times as on 
great gaps between the old life and the new. You do not 
know how much you suffer in those critical maladies of the 
heart, until the disease is over and you look back on it after- 
wards. During the time, the suffering is at least sufferable. 
The day passes in more or less of pain, and the night wears 
away somehow. ’Tis only in after days that we see what the 
danger has been — as a man out a-hunting or riding for his life 
looks at a leap, and wonders how he should have survived the 


Henry Esmond 1 69 

taking of it. O dark months of grief and rage ! of wrong and 
cruel endurance ! He is old now who recalls you. Long ago 
he has forgiven and blest the soft hand that wounded him : 
but the mark is there, and the wound is cicatrised only — no 
time, tears, caresses, or repentance can obliterate the scar. 
We are indocile to put up with grief, however. Rejicimus rates 
quassas : we tempt the ocean again and again, and try upon new 
ventures. Esmond thought of his early time as a noviciate, 
and of this past trial as an initiation before entering into life — 
as our young Indians undergo tortures silently before they pass 
to the rank of warriors in the tribe. 

The officers, meanwhile, who were not let into the secret of 
the grief which was gnawing at the side of their silent young 
friend, and being accustomed to such transactions, in which 
one comrade or another was daily paying the forfeit of the 
sword, did not, of course, bemoan themselves very inconsol- 
ably about the fate of their late companion-in-arms. This one 
told stories of former adventures of love, or war, or pleasure, 
in which poor Frank Esmond had been engaged ; t’other re- 
collected how a constable had been bilked, or a tavern-bully 
beaten : whilst my Lord’s poor widow was sitting at his tomb 
worshipping him as an actual saint and spotless hero — so the 
visitors said who had news of Lady Castlewood j and West- 
bury and Macartney had pretty nearly had all the town to 
come and see them. 

The duel, its fatal termination, the trial of the two peers and 
the three commoners concerned, had caused the greatest ex- 
citement in the town. The prints and news-letters were full 
of them. The three gentlemen in Newgate were almost as 
much crowded as the Bishops in the Tower, or a highway- 
man before execution. We were allowed to live in the 
Governor’s house, as hath been said, both before trial and 
after condemnation, waiting the King’s pleasure ; nor was the 
real cause of the fatal quarrel known, so closely had my Lord 
and the two other persons who knew it kept the secret, but 
every one imagined that the origin of the meeting was a 
gambling dispute. Except fresh air, the prisoners had, upon 
payment, most things they could desire. Interest was made 
that they should not mix with the vulgar convicts, whose 


lyo The History of 

ribald choruses and loud laughter and curses could be heard 
from their own part of the prison, where they and the miser- 
able debtors were confined pell-mell. 


Chapter II 

I come to the End of my Captivity, but not of my Trouble 

Among the company which came to visit the two officers was 
an old acquaintance of Harry Esmond ; that gentleman of the 
Guards, namely, who had been so kind to Harry when Captain 
Westbury’s troop had been quartered at Castle wood more than 
seven years before. Dick the Scholar was no longer Dick the 
Trooper now, but Captain Steele of Lucas’s Fusileers, and 
secretary to my Lord Cutts, that famous officer of King 
William’s, the bravest and most beloved man of the English 
army. The two jolly prisoners had been drinking with a 
party of friends (for our cellar, and that of the keepers of 
Newgate too, were supplied with endless hampers of Bur- 
gundy and Champagne that the friends of the Colonels sent 
in) ; and Harry, having no wish for their drink or their con- 
versation, being too feeble in health for the one, and too sad in 
spirits for the other, was sitting apart in his little room, read- 
ing such books as he had, one evening, when honest Colonel 
Westbury, flushed with liquor, and always good-humoured in 
and out of his cups, came laughing into Harry’s closet, and 
said, Ho, young Killjoy ! here’s a friend come to see thee ; 
he’ll pray with thee, or he’ll drink with thee ; or he’ll drink 
and pray turn about. Dick, my Christian hero, here’s the 
little scholar of Castlewood.” 

Dick came up and kissed Esmond on both cheeks, imparting 
a strong perfume of burnt sack along with his caress to the 
young man. 

“ What ! is this the little man that used to talk Latin and 
fetch our bowls ? How tall thou art grown ! I protest I 
should have known thee anywhere. And so you have turned 
ruffian and fighter ; and wanted to measure swords with 
Mohun, did you ? I protest that Mohun said at the Guard 


* lyi 


Henry Esmond 

dinner yesterday, where there was a pretty company of us, 
that the young fellow wanted to fight him, and was the better 
man of the two.” 

“ I wish we could have tried and proved it, Mr Steele,” says 
Esmond, thinking of his dead benefactor, and his eyes filling 
with tears. 

With the exception of that one cruel letter which he had 
from his mistress, Mr Esmond heard nothing from her, and 
she seemed determined to execute her resolve of parting from 
him and disowning him. But he had news of her, such as it 
was, which Mr Steele assiduously brought him from the 
Prince’s and Princess’s Court, where our honest Captain had 
been advanced to the post of gentleman-waiter. When off 
duty there. Captain Dick often came to console his friends in 
captivity ; a good nature and a friendly disposition towards 
all who were in ill-fortune no doubt prompting him to make 
his visits, and good-fellowship and good wine to prolong 
them. 

“ Faith,” says Westbury, “ the little scholar was the first 
to begin the quarrel — I mind me of it now — at Lockit’s. I 
always hated that fellow Mohun. What was the real cause 
of the quarrel betwixt him and poor Frank ? I would wager 
’twas a woman.” 

‘‘ ’Twas a quarrel about play — on my word, about play,” 
Harry said. “ My poor lord lost great sums to his guest at 
Castlewood. Angry words passed between them ; and though 
Lord Castlewood was the kindest and most pliable soul alive, 
his spirit was very high ; and hence that meeting which has 
brought us all here,” says Mr Esmond, resolved never to 
acknowledge that there had ever been any other cause but 
cards for the duel. 

“I do not like to use bad words of a nobleman,” says 
Westbury ; “ but if my Lord Mohun were a commoner, I 
would say ’twas a pity he was not hanged. He was familiar 
with dice and women at a time other boys are at school being 
birched ; he was as wicked as the oldest rake, years ere he 
had done growing ; and handled a sword and a foil, and a 
bloody one too, before he .ever used a razor. He held poor 
Will Mountford in talk that night when bloody Dick Hill ran 


172 The History of 

him through. He will come to a bad end, will that young 
lord ; and no end is bad enough for him,” says honest Mr 
Westbury : whose prophecy was fulfilled twelve years after, 
upon that fatal day when Mohun fell, dragging down one of 
the bravest and greatest gentlemen in England in his fall. 

From Mr Steele, then, who brought the public rumour, as 
well as his own private intelligence, Esmond learned the 
movements of his unfortunate mistress. Steele’s heart was of 
very inflammable composition ; and the gentleman-usher spoke 
in terms of boundless admiration both of the widow (that most 
beautiful woman, as he said) and of her daughter, who, in the 
Captain’s eyes, was a still greater paragon. If the pale widow, 
whom Captain Richard, in his poetic rapture, compared to a 
Niobe in tears — to a Sigismunda — to a weeping Belvidera — 
was an object the most lovely and pathetic which his eyes had 
ever beheld, or for which his heart had melted, even her 
ripened perfections and beauty were as nothing compared to 
the promise of that extreme loveliness which the good Captain 
saw in her daughter. It was matre pulcra jilia pulcrior. Steele 
composed sonnets whilst he was on duty in his Prince’s ante- 
chamber, to the maternal and filial charms. He would speak 
for hours about them to Harry Esmond ; and, indeed, he could 
have chosen few subjects more likely to interest the unhappy 
young man, whose heart was now as always devoted to these 
ladies ; and who was thankful to all who loved them, or 
praised them, or wished them well. 

Not that his fidelity was recompensed by any answering 
kindness, or show of relenting even, on the part of a mistress 
obdurate now after ten years of love and benefactions. The 
poor young man getting no answer, save Tusher’s, to that letter 
which he had written, and being too proud to write more, 
opened a part of his heart to Steele, than whom no man, when 
unhappy, could find a kinder hearer, or more friendly emissary ; 
described (in words which were no doubt pathetic, for they 
came imo pectore^ and caused honest Dick to weep plentifully) 
his youth, his constancy, his fond devotion to that household 
which had reared him ; his affection, how earned, and how 
tenderly requited until but yesterday, and (as far as he might) 
the circumstances and causes for which that sad quarrel had 


Henry Esmond 173 

made of Esmond a prisoner under sentence, a widow and 
orphans of those whom in life he held dearest. In terms that 
might well move a harder-hearted man than young Esmond’s 
confidant — for, indeed, the speaker’s own heart was half broke 
as he uttered them — he described a part of what had taken 
place in that only sad interview which his mistress had granted 
him ; how she had left him with anger and almost imprecation, 
whose words and thoughts until then had been only blessing 
and kindness ; how she had accused him of the guilt of that 
blood, in exchange for which he would cheerfully have 
sacrificed his own (indeed, in this the Lord Mohun, the 
Lord Warwick, and all the gentlemen engaged, as well as 
the common rumour out of doors — Steele told him — bore 
out the luckless young man) ; and with all his heart, and 
tears, he besought Mr Steele to inform his mistress of her 
kinsman’s unhappiness, and to deprecate that cruel anger she 
showed him. Half frantic with grief at the injustice done 
him, and contrasting it with a thousand soft recollections of 
love and confidence gone by, that made his present misery 
inexpressibly more bitter, the poor wretch passed many a 
lonely day and wakeful night in a kind of powerless despair 
and rage against his iniquitous fortune. It was the softest 
hand that struck him, the gentlest and most compassionate 
nature that persecuted him. ‘‘ I would as lief,” he said, 
“ have pleaded guilty to the murder, and have suffered for 
it like any other felon, as have to endure the torture to 
which my mistress subjects me.” 

Although the recital of Esmond’s story, and his passionate 
appeals and remonstrances, drew so many tears from Dick who 
heard them, they had no effect upon the person whom they 
were designed to move. Esmond’s ambassador came back 
from the mission with which the poor young gentleman had 
charged him, with a sad blank face and a shake of the head, 
which told that there was no hope for the prisoner; and 
scarce a wretched culprit in that prison of Newgate ordered 
for execution, and trembling for a reprieve, felt more cast 
down than Mr Esmond, innocent and condemned. 

As had been arranged between the prisoner and his counsel 
in their consultations, Mr Steele had gone to the Dowager’s 


174 


The History of 

house in Chelsey, where it has been said the widow and her 
orphans were, had seen my Lady Viscountess, and pleaded 
the cause of her unfortunate kinsman. “ And I think I spoke 
well, my poor boy,” says Mr Steele ; “ for who would not 
speak well in such a cause, and before so beautiful a judge ? 
I did not see the lovely Beatrix (sure her famous namesake 
of Florence was never half so beautiful), only the young 
Viscount was in the room with the Lord Churchill, my Lord 
of Marlborough’s eldest son. But these young gentlemen 
went off to the garden ; I could see them from the window 
tilting at each other with poles in a mimic tournament (grief 
touches the young but lightly, and I remember that I beat a 
drum at the coffin of my own father). My Lady Viscountess 
looked out at the two boys at their game and said, ‘ You see, 
sir, children are taught to use weapons of death as toys, and 
to make a sport of murder ; ’ and as she spoke she looked so 
lovely, and stood there in herself so sad and beautiful, an 
instance of that doctrine whereof I am a humble preacher, 
that had I not dedicated my little volume of the ‘ Christian 
Hero ’ — (I perceive, Harry, thou hast not cut the leaves of it. 
The sermon is good, believe me, though the preacher’s life 
may not answer it) — I say, hadn’t I dedicated the volume to 
Lord Cutts, I would have asked permission to place her 
Ladyship’s name on the first page. I think I never saw 
such a beautiful violet as that of her eyes, Harry. Her 
complexion is of the pink of the blush-rose, she hath an 
exquisite turned wrist and dimpled hand, and I make no 
doubt ” 

“ Did you come to tell me about the dimples on my Lady’s 
hand ? ” broke out Mr Esmond sadly. 

“ A lovely creature in affliction seems always doubly 
beautiful to me,” says the poor Captain, who indeed was 
but too often in a state to see double, and so checked he 
resumed the interrupted thread of his story. “ As I spoke 
my business,” Mr Steele said, ‘‘ and narrated to your mistress 
what all the world knows, and the other side hath been eager 
to acknowledge — that you had tried to put yourself between 
the two lords, and to take your patron’s quarrel on your 
own point ; I recounted the general praises of your gallantry. 


1 75 


Henry Esmond 

besides my Lord Mohun’s particular testimony to it ; I thought 
the widow listened with some interest, and her eyes — I have 
never seen such a violet, Harry — looked up at mine once or 
twice. But after I had spoken on this theme for a while she 
suddenly broke away with a cry of grief. ‘ I would to God, 
sir,’ she said, ‘ I had never heard that word gallantry which 
you use, or known the meaning of it. My Lord might have 
been here but for that j my home might be happy *, my poor 
boy have a father. It was what you gentlemen call gallantry 
came into my home, and drove my husband on to the cruel 
sword that killed him. You should not speak the word to a 
Christian woman, sir, a poor widowed mother of orphans, 
whose home was happy until the world came into it — the 
wicked godless world, that takes the blood of the innocent, 
and lets the guilty go free.’ 

“ As the afflicted lady spoke in this strain, sir,” Mr Steele 
: continued, “ it seemed as if indignation moved her, even more 
; than grief. ‘ Compensation ! ’ she went on passionately, her 
I cheeks and eyes kindling ; * what compensation does your 
I world give the widow for her husband, and the children for 
the murder of their father ? The wretch who did the deed 
has not even a punishment. Conscience ! what conscience has 
he, who can enter the house of a friend, whisper falsehood 
and insult to a woman that never harmed him, and stab the 
kind heart that trusted him? My Lord — my Lord Wretch’s, 
my Lord Villain’s, my Lord Murderer’s peers meet to try him, 
and they dismiss him with a word or two of reproof, and send 
him into the world again, to pursue women with lust and 
falsehood, and to murder unsuspecting guests that harbour 
him. That day, my Lord — my Lord Murderer — (I will never 
name him) — was let loose, a woman was executed at Tyburn 
for stealing in a shop. But a man may rob another of his life, 
or a lady of her honour, and shall pay no penalty ! I take my 
child, run to the throne, and on my knees ask for justice, and 
the King refuses me. The King ! he is no King of mine — 
he never shall be. He, too, robbed the throne from the King 
his father — the true King — and he has gone unpunished, as 
the great do.’ 

“ I then thought to speak for you,” Mr Steele continued. 


176 The History of 

** and I interposed by saying, ‘ There was one, madam, who, 
at least, would have put his own breast between your husband’s 
and my Lord Mohun’s sword. Your poor young kinsman, 
Harry Esmond, hath told me that he tried to draw the quarrel 
on himself.” 

“ ‘ Are you from him?^ asked the lady (so Mr Steele went 
on), rising up with a great severity and stateliness. ‘ I thought 
you had come from the Princess. I saw Mr Esmond in his 
prison, and bade him farewell. He brought misery into my 
house. He never should have entered it.’ 

** ‘ Madam, madam, he is not to blame,’ I interposed,” 
continued Mr Steele. 

** ‘ Do I blame him to you, sir ? ’ asked the widow. ‘ If ’tis 
he who sent you, say that I have taken counsel, where ’ — she 
spoke with a very pallid cheek now, and a break in her voice 
— ‘ where all who ask may have it : — and that it bids me to 
part from him, and to see him no more. We met in the 
prison for the last time — at least for years to come. It may 
be, in years hence, when — when our knees and our tears and 
our contrition have changed our sinful hearts, sir, and wrought 
our pardon, we may meet again — but not now. After what 
has passed, I could not bear to see him. I wish him well, 
sir *, but I wish him farewell too ; and if he has that — that 
regard towards us which he speaks of, I beseech him to prove 
it by obeying me in this.’ 

‘“I shall break the young man’s heart, madam, by this 
hard sentence,’ ” Mr Steele said. 

“The lady shook her head,” continued my kind scholar. 
“ ‘ The hearts of young men, Mr Steele, are not so made,’ she 
said. ‘ Mr Esmond will find other — other friends. The mis- 
tress of this house has relented very much towards the late 
lord’s son,’ she added, with a blush, ‘ and has promised me, — 
that is, has promised that she will care for his fortune. Whilst 
I live in it, after the horrid horrid deed which has passed, 
Castlewood must never be a home to him — never. Nor would 
I have him write to me — except — no — I would have him 
never write to me, nor see him more. Give him, if you 

will, my parting Hush ! not a word of this before my 

daughter.’ 


177 


, Henry Esmond 

“ Here the fair Beatrix entered from the river, with her 
j cheeks flushing with health, and looking only the more lovely 
r and fresh for the mourning habiliments which she wore. And 
I my Lady Viscountess said — 

‘‘ ‘ Beatrix, this is Mr Steele, gentleman-usher to the Prince’s 
Highness. When does your new comedy appear, Mr Steele ? ’ 
I hope thou wilt be out of prison for the first night, Harry.” 

The sentimental Captain concluded his sad tale, saying. 
Faith, the beauty of Filia pulcrior drove pulcram matrem out 
of my head ! and yet as I came down the river, and thought 
about the pair, the pallid dignity and exquisite grace of the 
matron had the uppermost, and I thought her even more noble 
than the virgin ! ” 

i The party of prisoners lived very well in Newgate, and 
I with comforts very different to those which were awarded to 
I the poor wretches there (his insensibility to their misery, their 
I gaiety still more frightful, their curses and blasphemy, hath 
struck with a kind of shame since — as proving how selfish, 

I during his imprisonment, his own particular grief was, and how 
entirely the thoughts of it absorbed him) : if the three gentle- 
men lived well under the care of the Warden of Newgate, it 
was because they paid well ; and indeed the cost at the dearest 
, ordinary or the grandest tavern in London could not have fur- 
I nished a longer reckoning, than our host of the “ Handcuff 
Inn” — as Colonel Westbury called it. Our rooms were the 
three in the gate over Newgate — on the second storey looking 
up Newgate Street towards Cheapside and Paufs Church. 
And we had leave to walk on the roof, and could see thence 
Smithfield and the Bluecoat Boys’ School, Gardens, and the 
Chartreux, where, as Harry Esmond remembered, Dick the 
Scholar and his friend Tom Tusher had had their schooling. 

Harry could never have paid his share of that prodigious 
heavy reckoning which my landlord brought to his guests once 
a week : for he had but three pieces in his pockets that fatal 
night before the duel, when the gentlemen were at cards, and 
offered to play five. But whilst he was yet ill at the Gate- 
house, after Lady Castlewood had visited him there, and before 
his trial, there came one in an orange-tawny coat and blue lace. 


lyS The History of 

the livery which the Esmonds always wore, and brought a 
sealed packet for Mr Esmond, which contained twenty guineas, 
and a note saying that a counsel had been appointed for him, 
and that more money would be forthcoming whenever he 
needed it. 

’Twas a queer letter from the scholar as she was, or as she 
called herself : the Dowager Viscountess Castlewood, written 
in the strange barbarous French which she and many other fine 
ladies of that time — witness her Grace of Portsmouth — em- 
ployed. Indeed, spelling was not an article of general com- 
modity in the world then, and my Lord Marlborough’s letters 
can show that he, for one, had but a little share of this part of 
grammar : — 

“ Mong Coussin,” my Lady Viscountess Dowager wrote, 
“je scay que vous vous etes bravement batew et grievement 
blessay — du coste de feu M. le Vicomte. M. le Compte de 
Varique ne se playt qua parlay de vous : M. de Moon au9y. 
II di que vous avay voulew vous bastre avecque luy — que vous 
estes plus fort que luy fur I’ayscrimme — quil’y a surtout cer- 
taine Botte que vous scavay quil n’a jammay sceu parlay : et 
que e’en eut ete fay de luy si vouseluy vous vous fussiay 
battews ansamb. Aincy ce pauv Vicompte est mort. Mort 
et peutayt — Mon coussin, mon coussin ! jay dans la tayste que 
vous n’estes quung pety Monst — angey que les Esmonds ong 
tousjours este. La veuve est chay moy. J’ay recuilly cet’ 
pauve famme. Elle est furieuse cont vous, allans tous les 
jours chercher ley Roy (d’icy) demandant a gran cri revanche 
pour son Mary. Elle ne veux voyre ni entende parlay de 
vous : pourtant elle ne fay qu’en parlay milfoy par jour. Quand 
vous seray hor prison venay me voyre. J’auray soing de 
vous. Si cette petite Prude veut se defaire de song 
pety Monste (Helas je craing quil ne soy trotar !) je m’en 
chargeray. J’ay encor quelqu interay et quelques escus de 
costay. 

“La Veuve se raccommode avec Miladi Marlboro qui est 
tout pui9ante avecque la Reine Anne. Cet dam senteraysent 
pour la petite prude ; qui pourctant a un fi du mesme asge que 
vous savay. 


179 


Henry Esmond 

En sortant de prisong venez icy. Je ne puy vous recevoir 
chaymoy a cause des mechansetes du monde, may pre du moy 
vous aurez logement. 

“Isabelle Viscomtesse d’Esmond.” 

Marchioness of Esmond this lady sometimes called herself, 
in virtue of that patent which had been given by the late King 
James to Harry Esmond’s father; and in this state she had her 
train carried by a knight’s wife, a cup and cover of assay to 
drink from, and fringed cloth. 

He who was of the same age as little Francis, whom we shall 
henceforth call Viscount Castlewood here, was H.R.H. the 
Prince of Wales, born in the same year and month with Frank, 
and just proclaimed, at Saint Germains, King of Great Britain, 
France, and Ireland. 


Chapter III 

I take the Queen’s Pay in Quin’s Regiment 

The fellow in the orange-tawny livery with blue lace and 
facings was in waiting when Esmond came out of prison, and, 
taking the young gentleman’s slender baggage, led the way out 
of that odious Newgate, and by Fleet Conduit down to the 
Thames, where a pair of oars was called, and they went up the 
river to Chelsey. Esmond thought the sun had never shone 
so bright ; nor the air felt so fresh and exhilarating. Temple 
Garden, as they rowed by, looked like the Garden of Eden to 
him, and the aspect of the quays, wharves, and buildings by the 
river, Somerset House, and Westminster (where the splendid 
new bridge was just beginning), Lambeth tower and palace, and 
that busy shining scene of the Thames swarming with boats 
and barges, filled his heart with pleasure and cheerfulness — 
as well such a beautiful scene might to one who had been a 
prisoner so long, and with so many dark thoughts deepening 
the gloom of his captivity. They rowed up at length to the 
pretty village of ‘Chelsey, where the nobility have many hand- 
some country houses ; and so came to my Lady Viscountess’s 


i8o The History of 

house,. a cheerful new house in the row facing the river, with 
a handsome garden behind it, and a pleasant look-out both 
towards Surrey and Kensington, where stands the noble 
ancient palace of the Lord Warwick, Harry’s reconciled 
adversary. 

Here in her Ladyship’s saloon, the young man saw again 
some of those pictures which had been at Castlewood, and 
which she had removed thence on the death of her lord, 
Harry’s father. Specially, and in the place of honour, was 
Sir Peter Lely’s picture of the Honourable Mistress Isabella 
Esmond as Diana, in yellow satin, with a bow in her hand 
and a crescent in her forehead; and dogs frisking about her. 
’Twas painted about the time when royal Endymions were 
said to find favour with this virgin huntress ; and, as goddesses 
have youth perpetual, this one believed to the day of her death 
that she never grew older : and always persisted in supposing 
the picture was still like her. 

After he had been shown to her room by the groom of the 
chamber, who filled many offices besides in her Ladyship’s 
modest household, and after a proper interval, his elderly 
goddess Diana vouchsafed to appear to the young man. A 
blackamoor in a Turkish habit, with red boots and a silver 
collar, on which the Viscountess’s arms were engraven, pre- 
ceded her and bore her cushion; then came her gentlewoman; 
a little pack of spaniels barking and frisking about preceded 
the austere huntress — then, behold, the Viscountess herself 
“ dropping odours.” Esmond recollected from his childhood 
that rich aroma of musk which his mother-in-law (for she may 
be called so) exhaled. As the sky grows redder and redder 
towards sunset, so, in the decline of her years, the cheeks of 
my Lady Dowager blushed more deeply. Her face was 
illuminated with vermilion, which appeared the brighter from 
the white paint employed to set it off. She wore the ringlets 
which had been in fashion in King Charles’s time ; whereas the 
ladies of King William’s had headdresses like the towers of 
Cybele. Her eyes gleamed out from the midst of this queer 
structure of paint, dyes, and pomatums. Such was my Lady 
Viscountess, Mr Esmond’s father’s widow. 

He made her such a profound bow as her dignity and 


Henry Esmond 1 8 1 

relationship merited, and advanced with the greatest gravity, 
and once more kissed that hand, upon the trembling knuckles 
of which glittered a score of rings— remembering old times 
when that trembling hand made him tremble. Marchioness,” 
says he, bowing, and on one knee, “is it only the hand I 
may have the honour of saluting ? ” For, accompanying 
that inward laughter, which the sight of such an astonishing 
old figure might well produce in the young man, there was 
goodwill too, and the kindness of consanguinity. She had 
been his father’s wife, and was his grandfather’s daughter. 
She had suffered him in old days, and was kind to him now 
after her fashion. And now that bar-sinister was removed 
from Esmond’s thought, and that secret opprobrium no longer 
cast upon his mind, he was pleased to feel family ties and own 
them — perhaps secretly vain of the sacrifice he had made, and 
to think that he, Esmond, was really the chief of his house, 
and only prevented by his own magnanimity from advancing 
his claim. 

At least, ever since he had learned that secret from his poor 
patron on his dying bed, actually as he was standing beside 
it, he had felt an independency which he had never known 
before, and which since did not desert him. So he called 
his old aunt Marchioness, but with an air as if he was the 
Marquis of Esmond who so addressed her. 

Did she read in the young gentleman’s eyes, which had 
now no fear of hers or their superannuated authority, that 
he knew or suspected the truth about his birth ? She gave 
a start of surprise at his altered manner : indeed, it was quite 
a different bearing to that of the Cambridge student who had 
paid her a visit two years since, and whom she had dismissed 
with five pieces sent by the groom of the chamber. She eyed 
him, then trembled a little more than was her wont, perhaps, 
and said, “ Welcome, cousin,” in a frightened voice. 

His resolution, as has been said before, had been quite 
different, namely, so to bear himself through life as if the 
secret of his birth was not known to him ; but he suddenly 
and rightly determined on a different course. He asked that 
her Ladyship’s attendants should be dismissed, and when they 
were private: “Welcome, nephew, at least, madam, it should 


i 82 


The History of 

be,” he said. great wrong has been done to me and to 

you, and to my poor mother who is no more.” 

‘‘ I declare before Heaven that I was guiltless of it,” she 
cried out, giving up her cause at once. “ It was your wicked 
father who ” 

Who brought this dishonour on our family,” says Mr 
Esmond. I know it full well. I want to disturb no one. 
Those who are in present possession have been my dearest 
benefactors, and are quite innocent of intentional wrong to 
me. The late lord, my dear patron, knew not the truth until 
a few months before his death, when Father Holt brought the 
news to him.” 

“ The wretch ! he had it in confession ! he had it in con- 
fession ! ” cried out the Dowager Lady. 

‘‘ Not so. He learned it elsewhere as well as in confession,” 
Mr Esmond answered. ‘‘ My father, when wounded at the 
Boyne, told the truth to a French priest, who was in hiding 
after the battle, as well as to the priest there, at whose house 
he died. This gentleman did not think fit to divulge the story 
till he met with Mr Holt at Saint OmeFs. And the latter 
kept it back for his own purpose, and until he had learned 
whether my mother was alive or no. She is dead years since, 
my poor patron told me with his dying breath, and I doubt 
him not. I do not know even whether I could prove a 
marriage. I would not if I could. I do not care to bring 
shame on our name, or grief upon those whom I love, however 
hardly they may use me. My father’s son, madam, won’t 
aggravate the wrong my father did you. Continue to be his 
widow, and give me your kindness. ’Tis all I ask from you ; 
and I shall never speak of this matter again.” 

“ Mais vous etes un noble jeune homme ! ” breaks out my 
Lady, speaking, as usual with her when she was agitated, in 
the French language. 

‘‘ Noblesse oblige,” says Mr Esmond, making her a low 
bow. “ There are those alive to whom, in return for their 
love to me, I often fondly said I would give my life away. 
Shall I be their enemy now, and quarrel about a title ? What 
matters who has it ? ’Tis with the family still.” 

“ What can there be in that little prude of a woman that 


Henry Esmond 183 

makes men so raffoler about her ? ” cries out my Lady 
Dowager. “She was here for a month petitioning the King. 
She is pretty, and well-conserved ; but she has not the hel air. 
In His late Majesty’s Court all the men pretended to admire 
her, and she was no better than a little wax doll. She is 
better now, and looks the sister of her daughter *, but what 
mean you all by bepraising her ? Mr Steele, who was in 
waiting on Prince George, seeing her with her two children 
going to Kensington, writ a poem about her, and says he shall 
wear her colours, and dress in black for the future. Mr 
Congreve says he will write a ‘ Mourning Widow,’ that shall 
be better than his ‘ Mourning Bride.’ Though their hus- 
, bands quarrelled and fought when that wretch Churchill 
i deserted the King (for which he deserved to be hung). Lady 
Marlborough has again gone wild about the little widow ; in- 
sulted me in my own drawing-room, by saying that ’twas not 
the old widow, but the young Viscountess, she had come to 
see. Little Castlewood and little Lord Churchill are to be 
sworn friends, and have boxed each other twice or thrice 
like brothers already. ’Twas that wicked young Mohun who, 
coming back from the provinces last year, where he had dis- 
interred her, raved about her all the winter ; said she was a 
pearl set before swine ; and killed poor stupid Frank. The 
quarrel was all about his wife. I know ’twas all about her. 
Was there anything between her and Mohun, nephew ? Tell 
me now — was there anything } About yourself, I do not ask 
you to answer questions.” 

Mr Esmond blushed up. “ My lady’s virtue is like that of 
a saint in heaven,” he cried out. 

“ Eh ! mon neveu. Many saints get to heaven after having 
a deal to repent of. I believe you are like all the rest of the 
fools, and madly in love with her.” 

“ Indeed, I loved and honoured her before all the world,” 
Esmond answered. “ I take no shame in that.” 

“ And she has shut her door on you — given the living to 
that horrid young cub, son of that horrid old bear, Tusher, and 
says she will never see you more. Monsieur mon neveu — we 
are all like that. When I was a young woman. I’m positive 
that a thousand duels were fought about me. And when poor 


184 The History of 

Monsieur de Souchy drowned himself in the canal at Bruges 
because I danced with Count Springbock, I couldn’t squeeze 
out a single tear, but danced till five o’clock the next morning. 
’Twas the Count — no, ’twas my Lord Ormond that played the 
fiddles, and His Majesty did me the honour of dancing all 
night with me. How you are grown ! You have got the belair. 
You are a black man. Our Esmonds are all black. The little 
prude’s son is fair , so was his father — fair and stupid. You 
were an ugly little wretch when you came to Castlewocd — 
you were all eyes, like a young crow. We intended you 
should be a priest. That awful Father Holt — how he used to 
frighten me when I was ill ! I have a comfortable director 
now — the Abbe Douillette — a dear man. We make meagre 
on Fridays always. My cook is a devout pious man. You, 
of course, are of the right way of thinking. They say the 
Prince of Orange is very ill indeed.” 

In this way the old Dowager rattled on remorselessly to Mr 
Esmond, who was quite astounded with her present volubility, 
contrasting it with her former haughty behaviour to him. 
But she had taken him into favour for the moment, and chose 
not only to like him, as, far as her nature permitted, but to be 
afraid of him ; and he found himself to be as familiar with her 
now as a young man, as, when a boy, he had been timorous and 
silent. She was as good as her word respecting him. She 
introduced him to her company, of which she entertained a 
good deal — of the adherents of King James of course — and a 
great deal of loud intriguing took place over her card-tables. 
She presented Mr Esmond as her kinsman to many persons of 
honour ; she supplied him not illiberally with money, which 
he had no scruple in accepting from her, considering the 
relationship which he bore to her, and the sacrifices which he 
himself was making in behalf of the family. But he had made 
up his mind to continue at no woman’s apron-strings longer ; 
and perhaps had cast about how he should distinguish himself, 
and make himself a name, which his singular fortune had 
denied him. A discontent with his former bookish life and 
quietude, — a bitter feeling of revolt at that slavery in which 
he had chosen to confine himself for the sake of those whose 
hardness towards him made his heart bleed, — a restless wish 


Henry Esmond 185 

to see men and the world, — led him to think of the military 
profession : at any rate, to desire to see a few campaigns, and 
accordingly he pressed his new patroness to get him a pair 
of colours ; and one day had the honour of finding himself 
appointed an ensign in Colonel Quin’s regiment of Fusileers 
on the Irish establishment. 

Mr Esmond’s commission was scarce three weeks old when 
that accident befell King William which ended the life of the 
greatest, the wisest, the bravest, and most clement sovereign 
whom England ever knew. ’'Twas the fashion of the hostile 
party to assail this great prince’s reputation during his life ; 
but the joy which they and all his enemies in Europe showed 
at his death, is a proof of the terror in which they held him. 
Young as Esmond was, he was wise enough (and generous 
enough too, let it be said) to scorn that indecency of gratula- 
tion which broke out amongst the followers of King James in 
London, upon the death of this illustrious prince, this invincible 
warrior, this wise and moderate statesman. Loyalty to the 
exiled king’s family was traditional, as has been said, in that 
house to which Mr Esmond belonged. His father’s widow 
had all her hopes, sympathies, recollections, prejudices, en- 
gaged on King James’s side ; and was certainly as noisy a 
conspirator as ever asserted the King’s rights, or abused his 
opponent’s, over a quadrille table or a dish of bohea. Her 
Ladyship’s house swarmed with ecclesiastics, in disguise and 
out ; whilst tale-bearers from St Germains ; and quidnuncs 
that knew the last news from Versailles : nay, the exact force 
and number of the next expedition which the French King 
was to send from Dunkirk, and which was to swallow up the 
Prince of Orange, his army and his Court. She had received 
the Duke of Berwick when he landed here in ’96. She kept 
the glass he drank from, vowing she never would use it till 
she drank King James the Third’s health in it on His Majesty’s 
return ; she had tokens from the Queen, and relics of the 
saint who, if the story was true, had not always been a saint 
as far as she and many others were concerned. She believed 
in the miracles wrought at his tomb, and had a hundred 
authentic stories of wondrous cures effected by the blessed 
King’s rosaries, the medals which he wore, the locks of his 


i86 


The History of 

hair, or what not. Esmond remembered a score of marvellous 
tales which the credulous old woman told him. There was 
the Bishop of Autun, that was healed of a malady he had for 
forty years, and which left him after he said mass for the 
repose of the King’s soul. There was Monsieur Marais, a 
surgeon in Auvergne, who had a palsy in both his legs, which 
was cured through the King’s intercession. There was 
Philip Pitet, of the Benedictines, who had a suffocating cough, 
which well nigh killed him, but he besought relief of Heaven 
through the merits and intercession of the blessed King, and 
he straightway felt a profuse sweat breaking out all over 
him, and was recovered perfectly. And there was the wife 
of Monsieur Lepervier, dancing-master to the Duke of Saxe- 
Gotha, who was entirely eased of a rheumatism by the King’s 
intercession, of which miracle there could be no doubt, for her 
surgeon and his apprentice had given their testimony, under 
oath, that they did not in any way contribute to the cure. Of 
these tales, and a thousand like them, Mr Esmond believed as 
much as he chose. His kinswoman’s greater faith had swallow 
for them all. 

The English High Church party did not adopt these legends. 
But truth and honour, as they thought, bound them to the 
exiled King’s side ; nor had the banished family any warmer 
supporter than that kind lady of Castlewood in whose house 
Esmond was brought up. She influenced her husband, very 
much more perhaps than my Lord knew, who admired his 
wife prodigiously, though he might be inconstant to her, and 
who, adverse to the trouble of thinking himself, gladly enough 
adopted the opinions which she chose for him. To one of her 
simple and faithful heart, allegiance to any sovereign but the 
one was impossible. To serve King William for interest’s sake 
would have been a monstrous hypocrisy and treason. Her 
pure conscience could no more have consented to it than to a 
theft, a forgery, or any other base action. Lord Castlewood 
might have been won over, no doubt, but his wife never 
could : and he submitted his conscience to hers in this case as 
he did in most others, when he was not tempted too sorely. 
And it was from his affection and gratitude most likely, and 
from that eager devotion for his mistress which characterised 


Henry Esmond 187 

all Esmond’s youth, that the young man subscribed to this, 
and other articles of faith, which his fond benefactress sent 
him. Had she been a Whig, he had been one ; had she fol- 
lowed Mr Fox, and turned Quaker, no doubt he would have 
adjured ruffles and a periwig, and have forsworn swords, 
lace-coats, and clocked stockings. In the scholars’ boyish dis- 
putes at the University, where parties ran very high, Esmond 
was noted as a Jacobite, and very likely from vanity as much 
as affection took the side of his family. 

Almost the whole of the clergy of the country and more 
than a half of the nation were on this side. Ours is the most 
loyal people in the world surely ; we admire our kings, and 
are faithful to them long after they have ceased to be true to 
us. ’Tis a wonder to any one who looks back at the history 
of the Stuart family to think how they kicked their crowns 
away from them ; how they flung away chances after chances ; 
what treasures of loyalty they dissipated, and how fatally they 
were bent on consummating their own ruin. If ever men had 
fidelity, ’twas they ; if ever men squandered opportunity, ’twas 
they; and, of all the enemies they had, they themselves were 
the most fatal.* 

When the Princess Anne succeeded, the wearied nation was 
glad enough to cry a truce from all these wars, controversies, 
and conspiracies, and to accept in the person of a Princess of 
the blood-royal a compromise between the parties into which 
the country was divided. The Tories could serve under her 
with easy consciences ; though a Tory herself, she represented 
the triumph of the Whig opinion. The people of England, 
always liking that their Princes should be attached to their 
own families, were pleased to think the Princess was faithful 
to hers ; and up to the very last day and hour of her reign, 
and but for that fatality which he inherited from his fathers 
along with their claims to the English crown. King James the 
Third might have worn it. But he neither knew how to wait 
an opportunity, nor to use it when he had it ; he was venture- 
some when he ought to have been cautious, and cautious when 

* TToTTOt, olop pv 6eo{is PpoTol alTiouPTai' 
i]fjL€U}P ydp cfniffL kcik’ efjL/xepai^ ol 8^ Kal avroi 
<Xff>^crLP aTaadaXiriffip vTr^p piopop dXye' exovaip. 


i88 


The History of 

he ought to have dared everything. ’Tis with a sort of rage 
at his inaptitude that one thinks of his melancholy story. Do 
the Fates deal more specially with kings than with common 
men ? One is apt to imagine so, in considering the history of 
that royal race, in whose behalf so much fidelity, so much 
valour, so much blood were desperately and bootlessly 
expended. 

The King dead then, the Princess Anne (ugly Anne Hyde’s 
daughter, our Dowager at Chelsey called her) was proclaimed 
by trumpeting heralds all over the town from Westminster to 
Ludgate Hill, amidst immense jubilations of the people. 

Next week my Lord Marlborough was promoted to the 
Garter, and to be Captain-General of Her Majesty’s forces 
at home and abroad. This appointment only inflamed the 
Dowager’s rage, or, as she thought it, her fidelity to her 
rightful sovereign. ‘‘ The Princess is but a puppet in the 
hands of that fury of a woman, who comes into my drawing- 
room and insults me to my face. What can come to a country 
that is given over to such a woman ? ” says the Dowager. 
“ As for that double-faced traitor, my Lord Marlborough, he 
has betrayed every man and every woman with whom he has 
had to deal, except his horrid wife, who makes him tremble. 
’Tis all over with the country when it has got into the clutches 
of such wretches as these.” 

Esmond’s old kinswoman saluted the new powers in this 
way ; but some good fortune at last occurred to a family 
which stood in great need of it, by the advancement of these 
famous personages, who benefited humbler people that had 
the luck of being in their favour. Before Mr Esmond left 
England in the month of August, and being then at Ports- 
mouth, where he had joined his regiment, and was busy at 
drill, learning the practice and mysteries of the musket and 
pike, he heard that a pension on the Stamp Office had been 
got for his late beloved mistress, and that the young Mistress 
Beatrix was also to be taken into Court. So much good, at 
least, had come of the poor widow’s visit to London, not re- 
venge upon her husband’s enemies, but reconcilement to old 
friends, who pitied, and seemed inclined to serve her. As for 
the comrades in prison and the late misfortune. Colonel West- 


Henry Esmond 189 

bury was with the Captain-General gone to Holland ; Captain 
Macartney was now at Portsmouth, with his regiment of 
Fusileers and the force under command of his Grace the 
Duke of Ormond, bound for Spain it was said ; my Lord 
Warwick was returned home; and Lord Mohun, so far 
from being punished for the homicide which had brought so 
much grief and change into the Esmond family, was gone in 
company of my Lord Macclesfield’s splendid embassy to the 
Elector of Hanover, carrying the Garter to his Highness, and 
a complimentary letter from the Queen. 

Chapter IV 

Recapitulations 

From such fitful lights as could be cast upon his dark history 
by the broken narrative of his poor patron, torn by remorse 
and struggling in the last pangs of dissolution, Mr Esmond 
had been made to understand so far, that his mother was long 
since dead ; and so there could be no question as regarded her 
or her honour, tarnished by her husband’s desertion and injury, 
to influence her son in any steps which he might take either 
for prosecuting or relinquishing his own just claims. It 
appeared from my poor Lord’s hurried confession, that he had 
been made acquainted with the real facts of the case only two 
years since, when Mr Holt visited him, and would have im- 
plicated him in one of those many conspiracies by which the 
secret leaders of King James’s party in this country were ever 
endeavouring to destroy the Prince of Orange’s life or power : 
conspiracies so like murder, so cowardly in the means used, 
so wicked in the end, that our nation has s ure done well in 
throwing off all allegiance and fidelity to the unhappy family 
that could not vindicate its right except by such treachery — 
by such dark intrigue and base agents. There were designs 
against King William that were no more honourable than the 
ambushes of cut-throats and footpads. ’Tis humiliating to 
think that a great Prince, possessed of a great and sacred 
right, and upholder of a great cause, should have stooped to 


190 


The History of 

such baseness of assassination and treasons as are proved by the 
unfortunate King James’s own warrant and sign-manual given 
to his supporters in this country. What he and they called 
levying war was, in truth, no better than instigating murder. 
The noble Prince of Orange burst magnanimously through 
those feeble meshes of conspiracy in which his enemies tried 
to envelop him : it seemed as if their cowardly daggers broke 
upon the breast of his undaunted resolution. After King 
James’s death, the Queen and her people at St Germains — 
priests and women for the most part — continued their in- 
trigues in behalf of the young Prince, James the Third, as he 
was called in France and by his party here (this Prince, or 
Chevalier de St George, was born in the same year with 
Esmond’s young pupil Frank, my Lord Viscount’s son) ; and 
the Prince’s affairs being in the hands of priests and women, 
were conducted as priests and women will conduct them, — 
artfully, cruelly, feebly, and to a certain bad issue. The moral 
of the Jesuits’ story I think as wholesome a one as ever was 
writ : the artfullest, the wisest, the most toilsome and dex- 
terous plot-builders in the world — there always comes a day 
when the roused public indignation kicks their flimsy edifice 
down, and sends its cowardly enemies a-flying. Mr Swift 
hath finely described that passion for intrigue, that love of 
secrecy, slander, and lying, which belongs to weak people, 
hangers-on of weak courts. ’Tis the nature of such to hate 
and envy the strong, and conspire their ruin ; and the con- 
spiracy succeeds very well, and everything presages the satis- 
factory overthrow of the great victim ; until one day Gulliver 
rouses himself, shakes off the little vermin of an enemy, and 
walks away unmolested. Ah ! the Irish soldiers might well 
say after the Boyne, “ Change kings with us, and we will 
fight it over again.” Indeed, the fight was not fair between 
the two. ’Twas a weak, priest-ridden, woman-ridden man, 
with such puny allies and weapons as his own poor nature led 
him to choose, contending against the schemes, the general- 
ship, the wisdom, and the heart of a hero. 

On one of these many coward’s errands then (for, as I view 
them now, I can call them no less), Mr Holt had come to my 
Lord at Castlewood, proposing some infallible plan for the 


Henry Esmond 1 9 1 

Prince of Orange’s destruction, in which my Lord Viscount, 
loyalist as he was, had indignantly refused to join. As far as 
Mr Esmond could gather from his dying words, Holt came 
to my Lord with a plan of insurrection, and offer of the re- 
newal, in his person, of that marquis’s title which King James 
had conferred on the preceding Viscount ; and on refusal of 
this bribe, a threat was made, on Holt’s part, to upset my 
Lord Viscount’s claim to his estate and title of Castlewood 
altogether. To back this astounding piece of intelligence, of 
which Henry Esmond’s patron now had the first light. Holt 
came armed with the late lord’s dying declaration, after the 
affair of the Boyne, at Trim, in Ireland, made both to the 
Irish priest and a French ecclesiastic of Holt’s order, that was 
with King James’s army. Holt showed, or pretended to show 
the marriage certificate of the late Viscount Esmond with my 
mother, in the city of Brussels, in the year 1677, when the 
Viscount, then Thomas Esmond, was serving with the English 
army in Flanders : he could show, he said, that this Gertrude, 
deserted by her husband long since, was alive, and a professed 
nun in the year 1685, at Brussels, in which year Thomas 
Esmond married his uncle’s daughter Isabella, now called 
Viscountess Dowager of Castlewood ; and leaving him, for 
twelve hours, to consider this astounding news (so the poor 
dying lord said), disappeared with his papers in the mysterious 
way in which he came. Esmond knew how, well enough : by 
that window from which he had seen the Father issue : — but 
there was no need to explain to my poor Lord, only to gather 
from his parting lips the words which he would soon be able 
to utter no more. 

Ere the twelve hours were over. Holt himself was a prisoner, 
implicated in Sir John Fenwick’s conspiracy, and locked up at 
Hexton first, whence he was transferred to the Tower ; leav- 
ing the poor Lord Viscount, who was not aware of the other’s 
being taken, in daily apprehension of his return, when (as my 
Lord Castlewood declared, calling God to witness, and with 
tears in his dying eyes) it had been his intention at once to 
give up his estate and his title to their proper owner, and to 
retire to his own house at Walcote with his family. ‘‘ And 
would to God I had done it,” the poor lord said. “ I would 


192 The History of 

not be here now, wounded to death, a miserable, stricken 
man ! ” 

My Lord waited day after day, and, as may be supposed, no 
messenger came ; but at a month’s end Holt got means to 
convey to him a message out of the Tower, which was to this 
effect : that he should consider all unsaid that had been said, 
and that things were as they were. 

‘‘ I had a sore temptation,” said my poor Lord. Since I 
had come into this cursed title of Castlewood, which hath 
never prospered with me, I have spent far more than the 
income of that estate, and my paternal one too. I calculated 
all my means down to the last shilling, and found I never 
could pay you back, my poor Harry, whose fortune I had had 
for twelve years. My wife and children must have gone out 
of the house dishonoured, and beggars. God knows, it hath 
been a miserable one for me and mine. Like a coward, I 
clung to that respite which Holt gave me. I kept the truth 
from Rachel and you. I tried to win money of Mohun, and 
only plunged deeper into debt ; I scarce dared look thee in 
the face when I saw thee. This sword hath been hanging 
over my head these two years. I swear I felt happy when 
Mohun’s blade entered my side.” 

After lying ten months in the Tower, Holt, against whom 
nothing could be found except that he was a Jesuit priest, 
known to be in King James’s interest, was put on shipboard 
by the incorrigible forgiveness of King William, who promised 
him, however, a hanging if ever he should again set foot on 
English shore. More than once, whilst he was in prison him- 
self, Esmond had thought where those papers could be which 
the Jesuit had shown to his patron, and which had such an 
interest for himself. They were not found on Mr Holt’s person 
when that Father was apprehended, for had such been the 
case my Lords of the Council had seen them, and this family 
history had long since been made public. However, Esmond 
cared not to seek the papers. His resolution being taken ; 
his poor mother dead ; what matter to him that documents 
existed proving his right to a title which he was determined 
not to claim, and of which he vowed never to deprive that 
family which he loved best in the world ? Perhaps he took a 


193 


Henry Esmond 

greater pride out of his sacrifice than he would have had in 
those honours which he was resolved to forego. Again, as 
long as these titles were not forthcoming, Esmond’s kinsman, 
dear young Francis, was the honourable and undisputed owner 
of the Castlewood estate and title. The mere word of a 
Jesuit could not overset Frank’s right of occupancy, and so 
Esmond’s mind felt actually at ease to think the papers were 
missing, and in their absence his dear mistress and her son the 
lawful Lady and Lord of Castlewood. 

Very soon after his liberation, Mr Esmond made it his 
business to ride to that village of Ealing where he had passed 
his earliest years in this country, and to see if his old guardians 
were still alive and inhabitants of that place. But the only 
relique which he found of old M. Pastoureau was a stone in 
the churchyard, which told that Athanasius Pastoureau, a 
native of Flanders, lay there buried, aged 87 years. The 
old man’s cottage, which Esmond perfectly recollected, and 
the garden (where in his childhood he had passed many hours 
of play and reverie, and had many a beating from his termagant 
of a foster-mother) were now in the occupation of quite a 
different family ; and it was with difficulty that he could learn 
in the village what had come of Pastoureau’s widow and 
children. The clerk of the parish recollected her — the old 
man was scarce altered in the fourteen years that had passed 
since last Esmond set eyes on him. It appeared she had pretty 
soon consoled herself after the death of her old husband, 
whom she ruled over, by taking a new one younger than 
herself, who spent her money and ill-treated her and her 
children. The girl died ; one of the boys ’listed ; the other 
had gone apprentice. Old Mr Rogers, the clerk, said he 
had heard that Mrs Pastoureau was dead too. She and her 
husband had left Ealing this seven year ; and so Mr Esmond’s 
hopes of gaining any information regarding his parentage from 
this family were brought to an end. He gave the old clerk a 
crown-piece for his news, smiling to think of the time when 
he and his little playfellows had slunk out of the churchyard 
or hidden behind the gravestones at the approach of this awful 
authority. 

Who was his mother ? What had her name been ? When 

N 


194 


The History of 

did she die ? Esmond longed to find some one who could 
answer these questions to him, and thought even of putting 
them to his aunt the Viscountess, who had innocently taken 
the name which belonged of right to Henry’s mother. But 
she knew nothing, or chose to know nothing, on this subject, 
nor, indeed, could Mr Esmond press her much to speak on 
it. Father Holt was the only man who could enlighten 
him, and Esmond felt he must wait until some fresh chance 
or new intrigue might put him face to face with his old 
friend, or bring that restless, indefatigable spirit back to 
England again. 

The appointment to his ensigncy, and the preparations 
necessary for the campaign, presently gave the young gentle- 
man other matters to think of. His new patroness treated 
him very kindly and liberally ; she promised to make interest 
and pay money, too, to get him a company speedily ; she bade 
him procure a handsome outfit, both of clothes and of arms, 
and was pleased to admire him when he made his first appear- 
ance in his laced scarlet coat, and to permit him to salute her 
on the occasion of this interesting investiture. “ Red,” says 
she, tossing up her old head, ‘‘hath always been the colour 
worn by the Esmonds.” And so her Ladyship wore it on her 
own cheeks very faithfully to the last. She would have him 
be dressed, she said, as became his father’s son, and paid 
cheerfully for his five-pound beaver, his black buckled periwig, 
and his fine holland shirts, and his swords, and his pistols 
mounted with silver. Since the day he was born, poor Harry 
had never looked such a fine gentleman: his liberal stepmother 
filled his purse with guineas too, some of which Captain Steele 
and a few choice spirits helped Harry to spend in an enter- 
tainment which Dick ordered (and, indeed, would have paid 
for, but that he had no money when the reckoning was 
called for ; nor would the landlord give him any more credit) 
at the “ Garter,” over against the gate of the Palace, in 
Pall Mall. 

The old Viscountess, indeed, if she had done Esmond any 
wrong formerly, seemed inclined to repair it by the present 
kindness of her behaviour: she embraced him copiously at 
parting, wept plentifully, bade him write by every packet, and 


195 


Henry Esmond 

gave him an inestimable relic, which she besought him to wear 
round his neck — a medal, blessed by I know not what pope, 
and worn by his late sacred Majesty King James. So Esmond 
arrived at his regiment with a better equipage than most 
young officers could afford. He was older than most of his 
seniors, and had a further advantage which belonged but to 
very few of the army gentlemen in his day — many of whom 
could do little more than write their names — that he had read 
much, both at home and at the University, was master of 
two or three languages, and had that further education which 
neither books nor years will give, but which some men get 
from the silent teaching of Adversity. She is a great school- 
mistress, as many a poor fellow knows, that hath held his 
hand out to her ferule, and whimpered over his lesson before 
her awful chair. 


Chapter V 

I go on the Vigo Bay Expedition, taste Salt-Water, and 
smell Powder 

The first expedition in which Mr Esmond had the honour to 
be engaged rather resembled one of the invasions projected 
by the redoubted Captain Avory or Captain Kidd, than a war 
between crowned heads, carried on by generals of rank and 
honour. On the ist day of July 1702, a great fleet, of a 
hundred and fifty sail, set sail from Spithead, under the com- 
mand of Admiral Shovell, having on board 12,000 troops, 
with his Grace the Duke of Ormond as the Capt.-General 
of the expedition. One of these 12,000 heroes having never 
been to sea before, or, at least, only once in his infancy, when 
he made the voyage to England from that unknown country 
where he was born — one of those 12,000 — the junior ensign 
of Colonel Quin’s regiment of Fusileers — was in a quite un- 
heroic state of corporal prostration a few hours after sailing ; 
and an enemy, had he boarded the ship, would have had easy 
work of him. From Portsmouth we put into Plymouth, and 
took in fresh reinforcements. We were off Finisterre on the 


196 The History of 

31st of July, so Esmond’s table-book informs him : and on the 
8th of August made the rock of Lisbon. By this time the 
Ensign was grown as bold as an admiral, and a week after- 
wards had the fortune to be under fire for the first time — and 
under water, too — his boat being swamped in the surf in 
Toros Bay, where the troops landed. The ducking of his 
new coat was all the harm the young soldier got in this 
expedition, for, indeed, the Spaniards made no stand before 
our troops, and were not in strength to do so. 

But the campaign, if not very glorious, was very pleasant. 
New sights of nature, by sea and land — a life of action, 
beginning now for the first time — occupied and excited the 
young man. The many accidents and the routine of ship- 
board — the military duty — the new acquaintances, both of 
his comrades in arms and of the officers of the fleet — served 
to cheer and occupy his mind, and waken it out of that selfish 
depression into which his late unhappy fortunes had plunged 
him. He felt as if the ocean separated him from his past 
care, and welcomed the new era of life which was dawning 
for him. Wounds heal rapidly in a heart of two-and- 
twenty ; hopes revive daily ; and courage rallies in spite of 
a man. Perhaps, as Esmond thought of his late despondency ; 
and melancholy, and how irremediable it had seemed to him, i 
as he lay in his prison a few months back, he was almost I 
mortified in his secret mind at finding himself so cheerful. 

To see with one’s own eyes men and countries, is better I 
than reading all the books of travel in the world ; and it was j 
with extreme delight and exultation that the young man ' 
found himself actually on his grand tour, and in the view of 
people and cities which he had read about as a boy. He 
beheld war for the first time — the pride, pomp, and circum- 
stance of it, at least, if not much of the danger. He saw 
actually, and with his own eyes, those Spanish cavaliers and 
ladies whom he had beheld in imagination in that immortal 
story of Cervantes, which had been the delight of his youth- 
ful leisure. ’Tis forty years since Mr Esmond witnessed 
those scenes, but they remain as fresh in his memory as on 
the day when first he saw them as a young man. A cloud, 
as of grief, that had lowered over him, and had wrapped the 


197 


Henry Esmond 

last years of his life in gloom, seemed to clear away from 
Esmond during this fortunate voyage and campaign. His 
energies seemed to awaken and to expand under a cheerful 
sense of freedom. Was his heart secretly glad to have escaped 
from that fond but ignoble bondage at home ? Was it that the 
inferiority to which the idea of his base birth had compelled 
him, vanished with the knowledge of that secret, which though, 
perforce, kept to himself, was yet enough to cheer and console 
him ? At any rate, young Esmond of the army was quite a 
different being to the sad little dependant of the kind Castle- 
j wood household, and the melancholy student of Trinity Walks; 

I discontented with his fate, and with the vocation into which 
i that drove him, and thinking, with a secret indignation, that 
I the cassock and bands, and the very sacred office with which 
I he had once proposed to invest himself, were, in fact, but 
! marks of a servitude which was to continue all his life long. 
I For, disguise it as he might to himself, he had all along felt that 
j to be Castlewood’s chaplain was to be Castlewood’s inferior 
1 still, and that his life was but to be a long, hopeless servitude. 

[ So, indeed, he was far from grudging his old friend Tom 
Tusher’s good fortune (as Tom, no doubt, thought it). Had 
it been a mitre and Lambeth which his friends offered him, and 
not a small living and a country parsonage, he would have felt 
as much a slave in one case as in the other, and was quite 
happy and thankful to be free. 

The bravest man I ever knew in the army, and who had 
been present in most of King William’s actions, as well as in 
the campaigns of the great Duke of Marlborough, could never 
be got to tell us of any achievement of his, except that once 
Prince Eugene ordered him up a tree to reconnoitre the enemy, 
which feat he could not achieve on account of the horseman’s 
boots he wore ; and on another day that he was very nearly 
taken prisoner because of these jackboots, which prevented him 
from running away. The present narrator shall imitate this laud- 
able reserve, and doth not intend to dwell upon his military 
exploits, which were in truth not very different from those 
of a thousand other gentlemen. This first campaign of Mr 
Esmond’s lasted but a few days ; and as a score of books have 
been written concerning it, it may be dismissed very briefly here. 


198 The History of 

When our fleet came within view of Cadiz, our commander 
sent a boat with a white flag and a couple of officers to the 
Governor of Cadiz, Don Scipio de Brancaccio, with a letter 
from his Grace, in which he hoped that as Don Scipio had 
formerly served with the Austrians against the French, ’twas 
to be hoped that his Excellency would now declare himself 
against the French King, and for the Austrian, in the war be- 
tween King Philip and King Charles. But his Excellency, 
Don Scipio, prepared a reply, in which he announced that, 
having served his former king with honour and fidelity, he 
hoped to exhibit the same loyalty and devotion towards his 
present sovereign. King Philip V. ; and by the time this letter 
was ready, the two officers had been taken to see the town, 
and the Alameda, and the theatre, where bull-fights are 
fought, and the convents, where the admirable works of Don 
Bartholomew Murillo inspired one of them with a great 
wonder and delight — such as he had never felt before — con- 
cerning this divine art of painting ; and these sights over, and 
a handsome refection and chocolate being served to the English 
gentlemen, they were accompanied back to their shallop with 
every courtesy, and were the only two officers of the English 
army that saw at that time that famous city. 

The general tried the power of another proclamation on the 
Spaniards, in which he announced that we only came in the 
interest of Spain and IGng Charles, and for ourselves wanted 
to make no conquest nor settlement in Spain at all. But all 
this eloquence was lost upon the Spaniards, it would seem : 
the Captain-General of Andalusia would no more listen to us 
than the Governor of Cadiz ; and in reply to his Grace’s pro- 
clamation, the Marquis of Villadarias fired off another, which 
those who knew the Spanish thought rather the best of the 
two ; and of this number was Harry Esmond, whose kind 
Jesuit in old days had instructed him, and who now had the 
honour of translating for his Grace these harmless documents 
of war. There was a hard touch for his Grace, and, indeed, 
for other generals in Her Majesty’s service, in the concluding 
sentence of the Don : ‘‘ That he and his council had the 
generous example of their ancestors to follow, who had never 
yet sought their elevation in the blood or in the flight of their 


] Henry Esmond 199 

1 kings. ‘ Mori pro patria ’ was his device, which the Duke 
\ might communicate to the Princess who governed England.” 

Whether the troops were angry at this repartee or no, ’tis 
I certain something put them in a fury ; for, not being able to 
get possession of Cadiz, our people seized upon Port St Mary’s 
and sacked it, burning down the merchants’ storehouses, getting 
drunk with the famous wines there, pillaging and robbing 
quiet houses and convents, murdering and doing worse. And 
the only blood which Mr Esmond drew in this shameful cam- 
paign, was the knocking down an English sentinel with a half- 
pike, who was offering insult to a poor trembling nun. Is 
she going to turn out a beauty ? or a princess ? or perhaps 
' Esmond’s mother that he had lost and never seen ? Alas, no : 
it was but a poor wheezy old dropsical woman, with a wart 
upon her nose. But having been early taught a part of the 
Roman religion, he never had the horror of it that some 
Protestants have shown, and seem to think to be a part 
of ours. 

After the pillage and plunder of St Mary’s, and an assault 
upon a fort or two, the troops all took shipping, and finished 
I their expedition, at any rate, more brilliantly than it had begun, 
i Hearing that the French fleet with a great treasure was in 
Vigo Bay, our Admirals, Rooke and Hopson, pursued the 
enemy thither ; the troops landed and carried the forts that 
protected the bay, Hopson passing the boom first on board his 
ship the Torbay, and the rest of the ships, English and Dutch, 
following him. Twenty ships were burned or taken in the 
port of Redondilla, and a vast deal more plunder than was ever 
accounted for ; but poor men before that expedition were rich 
afterwards, and so often was it found and remarked that the 
Vigo officers came home with pockets full of money, that the 
notorious Jack Shafto, who made such a figure at the coffee- 
houses and gaming-tables in London, and gave out that he had 
i been a soldier at Vigo, owned, when he was about to be 
I hanged, that Bagshot Heath had been his Vigo, and that he 
only spoke of La Redondilla to turn away people’s eyes from 
I the real place where the booty lay. Indeed, Hounslow or 
Vigo — which matters much ? The latter was a bad business, 
though Mr Addison did sing its praises in Latin^ That honest 


200 


The History of 

gentleman’s muse had an eye to the main chance ; and I 
doubt whether she saw much inspiration in the losing 
side. 

But though Esmond, for his part, got no share of this 
fabulous booty, one great prize which he had out of the cam- 
paign was, that excitement of action and change of scene, 
which shook off a great deal of his previous melancholy. He 
learnt at any rate to bear his fate cheerfully. He brought back 
a browned face, a heart resolute enough, and a little pleasant 
store of knowledge and observation, from that expedition, 
which was over with the autumn, when the troops were back 
in England again ; and Esmond giving up his post of secretary 
to General Lumley, whose command was over, and parting 
with that officer with many kind expressions of good-will on 
the General’s side, had leave to go to London, to see if he 
could push his fortunes any way further, and found himself 
once more in his dowager aunt’s comfortable quarters at 
Chelsey, and in greater favour than ever with the old lady. 
He propitiated her with a present of a comb, a fan, and a black 
mantle, such as the ladies of Cadiz wear, and which my Lady 
Viscountess pronounced became her style of beauty mightily. 
And she was greatly edified at hearing of that story of his 
rescue of the nun, and felt very little doubt but that her King 
James’s relic, which he had always dutifully worn in his desk, 
had kept him out of danger, and averted the shot of the 
enemy. My Lady made feasts for him, introduced him to more 
company, and pushed his fortunes with such enthusiasm and 
success, that she got a promise of a company for him through 
the Lady Marlborough’s interest, who was graciously pleased 
to accept of a diamond worth a couple of hundred guineas, 
which Mr Esmond was enabled to present to her Ladyship 
through his aunt’s bounty, and who promised that she would 
take charge of Esmond’s fortune. He had the honour to make 
his appearance at the Queen’s Drawing-room occasionally, and 
to frequent my Lord Marlborough’s levees. The great man 
received the young one with very especial favour, so Esmond’s 
comrades said, and deigned to say that he had received the 
best reports of Mr Esmond, both for courage and ability, 
whereon you may be sure the young gentleman made a pro- 


201 


Henry Esmond 

found bow, and expressed himself eager to serve under the 
most distinguished captain in the world. 

Whilst his business was going on thus prosperously, Esmond 
1 had his share of pleasure too, and made his appearance along 
with other young gentlemen at the coffee-houses, the theatres, 
and the Mall. He longed to hear of his dear mistress and her 
I family : many a time, in the midst of the gaieties and pleasures 
I of the town, his heart fondly reverted to them ; and often, as 
the young fellows of his society were making merry at the 
tavern, and calling toasts (as the fashion of that day was) over 
their wine, Esmond thought of persons — of two fair women, 
whom he had been used to adore almost, and emptied his glass 
|i with a sigh. 

‘ By this time the elder Viscountess had grown tired again of 
|: the younger, and whenever she spoke of my Lord’s widow, 

1; ’twas in terms by no means complimentary towards that poor 
[ lady : the younger woman not needing her protection any 
I longer, the elder abused her. Most of the family quarrels that 
I I have seen in life (saving always those arising from money- 
; disputes, when a division of twopence halfpenny will often 
I drive the dearest relatives into war and estrangement) spring 
I out of jealousy and envy. Jack and Tom, born of the same 
I family and to the same fortune, live very cordially together, 
j not until Jack is ruined, when Tom deserts him, but until Tom 
I makes a sudden rise in prosperity, which Jack can’t forgive. 

I Ten times to one ’tis the unprosperous man that is angry, not 
; the other who is in fault. ’Tis Mrs Jack, who can only afford 
a chair, that sickens at Mrs Tom’s new coach-and-six, cries out 
against her sister’s airs, and sets her husband against his 
brother. ’Tis Jack who sees his brother shaking hands with 
a lord (with whom Jack would like to exchange snuff-boxes 
himself), that goes home and tells his wife how poor Tom is 
spoiled, he fears, and no better than a sneak, parasite, and 
beggar on horseback. I remember how furious the coffee-house 
wits were with Dick Steele when he set up his coach and fine 
house at Bloomsbury ; they began to forgive him when the 
bailiffs were after him, and abused Mr Addison for selling 
Dick’s country house. And yet Dick in the spunging-house, 
or Dick in the Park, with his four mares and plated harness. 


202 


The History of 

was exactly the same gentle, kindly, improvident, jovial Jack 
Steele : and yet Mr Addison was perfectly right in getting the 
money which was his, and not giving up the amount of his 
just claim, to be spent by Dick upon champagne and fiddlers, 
laced clothes, fine furniture, and parasites, Jew and Christian, 
male and female, who clung to him. As, according to the 
famous maxim of Monsieur de Rochefoucault, in our friends’ 
misfortunes there’s something secretly pleasant to us ; ” so, on 
the other hand, their good fortune is disagreeable. If ’tis hard 
for a man to bear his own good luck, ’tis harder still for his 
friends to bear it on him ; and but few of them ordinarily can 
stand that trial : whereas one of the ‘‘ precious uses ” of adver- 
sity is, that it is a great reconciler ; that it brings back averted 
kindness, disarms animosity, and causes yesterday’s enemy to 
fling his hatred aside, and hold out a hand to the fallen friend 
of old days. There’s pity and love, as well as envy, in the 
same heart and towards the same person. The rivalry stops 
when the competitor tumbles ; and, as I view it, we should 
look at these agreeable and disagreeable qualities of our 
humanity humbly alike. They are consequent and natural, 
and our kindness and meanness both manly. 

So you may either read the sentence, that the elder of 
Esmond’s two kinswomen pardoned the younger her beauty, 
when that had lost somewhat of its freshness, perhaps ; and 
forgot most her grievances against the other when the subject 
of them was no longer prosperous and enviable ; or we may say 
more benevolently (but the sum comes to the same figures, 
worked either way), that Isabella repented of her unkindness 
towards Rachel, when Rachel was unhappy ; and, bestirring 
herself in behalf of the poor widow and her children, gave 
them shelter and friendship. The ladies were quite good 
friends as long as the weaker one needed a protector. Before 
Esmond went away on his first campaign, his mistress was still 
on terms of friendship (though a poor little chit, a woman that 
had evidently no spirit in her, &c.) with the elder Lady Castle- 
wood ; and Mistress Beatrix was allowed to be a beauty. 

But between the first year of Queen Anne’s reign and the 
second, sad changes for the worse had taken place in the two 
younger ladies, at least in the elder’s description of them. 


203 


Henry Esmond 

Rachel, Viscountess Castlewood, had no more face than a 
dumpling, and Mrs Beatrix was grown quite coarse, and was 
losing all her beauty. Little Lord Blandford — (she never 
would call him Lord Blandford ; his father was Lord Churchill 
— the King, whom he betrayed, had made him Lord Churchill, 
and he was Lord Churchill still, — might be making eyes at her ; 

! but his mother, that vixen of a Sarah Jennings, would never 
I hear of such a folly. Lady Marlborough had got her to be a 
I maid of honour at Court to the Princess, but she would repent 
[ of it. The widow Francis (she was but Mrs Francis Esmond) 

I was a scheming, artful, heartless hussy. She was spoiling her 
i brat of a boy, and she would end by marrying her chaplain. 

“ What, Tusher ! ” cried Mr Esmond, feeling a strange pang 
of rage and astonishment. 

“ Yes — Tusher, my maid’s son ; and who has got all the 
qualities of his father the lacquey in black, and his accom- 
plished mamma the waiting-woman,” cries my Lady. “ What 
do you suppose that a sentimental widow, who will live down 
in that dingy dungeon of a Castlewood, where she spoils her 
boy, kills the poor with her drugs, has prayers twice a day, 
and sees nobody but the chaplain — what do you suppose she 
can do, mon cousin, but let the horrid parson, with his great 
square toes and hideous little green eyes, make love to her 
Cela c’est vu, mon cousin. When I was a girl at Castlewood, 
all the chaplains fell in love with me — they’ve nothing else to 
do.” 

My Lady went on with more talk of this kind, though, in 
truth, Esmond had no idea of what she said further, so entirely 
did her first words occupy his thought. Were they true ? Not 
all, nor half, nor a tenth part of what the garrulous old woman 
said, was true. Could this be so ? No ear had Esmond for 
anything else, though his patroness chatted on for an hour. 

Some young gentlemen of the town, with whom Esmond 
had made acquaintance, had promised to present him to that 
most charming of actresses, and lively and agreeable of women, 
Mrs Bracegirdle, about whom Harry’s old adversary Mohun 
had drawn swords, a few years before my poor Lord and he 
fell out. The famous Mr Congreve had stamped with his high 
approval, to the which there was no gainsaying this delightful 


204 


The History of 

person : and she was acting in Dick Steele’s comedies, and 
finally, and for twenty-four hours after beholding her, Mr 
Esmond felt himself, or thought himself, to be as violently 
enamoured of this lovely brunette, as were a thousand other 
young fellows about the city. To have once seen her was to 
long to behold her again ; and to be offered the delightful 
privilege of her acquaintance, was a pleasure the very idea of 
which set the young lieutenant’s heart on fire. A man cannot 
live with comrades under the tents without finding out that 
he too is five-and-twenty. A young fellow cannot be cast 
down by grief and misfortune ever so severe but some night 
he begins to sleep sound, and some day when dinner-time 
comes to feel hungry for a beefsteak. Time, youth and good 
health, new scenes and the excitement of action and a cam- 
paign, had pretty well brought Esmond’s mourning to an end ; 
and his comrades said that Don Dismal, as they called him, 
was Don Dismal no more. So when a party was made to dine 
at the “ Rose,” and go to the playhouse afterward, Esmond 
was as pleased as another to take his share of the bottle and 
the play. 

How was it that the old aunt’s news, or it might be scandal, 
about Tom Tusher, caused such a strange and sudden excite- 
ment in Tom’s old playfellow ? Hadn’t he sworn a thousand 
times in his own mind that the Lady of Castlewood, who had 
treated him with such kindness once, and then had left him so 
cruelly, was, and was to remain henceforth, indifferent to him 
for ever ? Had his pride and his sense of justice not long since 
helped him to cure the pain of that desertion — was it even a 
pain to him now ? Why, but last night as he walked across 
the fields and meadows to Chelsey from Pall Mall, had he not 
composed two or three stanzas of a song, celebrating Brace- 
girdle’s brown eyes, and declaring them a thousand times more 
beautiful than the brightest blue ones that ever languished 
under the lashes of an insipid fair beauty ! But Tom Tusher ! 
Tom Tusher, the waiting-woman’s son, raising up his little 
eyes to his mistress ! Tom Tusher presuming to think of 
Castlewood’s widow ! — Rage and contempt filled Mr Harry’s 
heart at the very notion ; the honour of the family, of which 
he was the chief, made it his duty to prevent so monstrous 


205 


Henry Esmond 

an alliance, and to chastise the upstart who could dare to 
think of such an insult to their house. ’Tis true Mr Esmond 
often boasted of republican principles, and could remember 
many fine speeches he had made at college and elsewhere, 
with nvorth and not birth for a text : but Tom Tusher to take 
the place of the noble Castlewood — faugh ! ’twas as monstrous 
as King Hamlet’s widow taking off her weeds for Claudius. 
Esmond laughed at all widows, all wives, all women ; and 
were the banns about to be published, as no doubt they were, 
that very next Sunday at Walcote Church, Esmond swore 
that he would be present to shout No ! in the face of the con- 
gregation, and to take a private revenge upon the ears of the 
bridegroom. 

Instead of going to dinner then at the Rose” that night, 
Mr Esmond bade his servant pack a portmanteau and get 
horses, and was at Farnham, half-way on the road to Walcote, 
thirty miles off, before his comrades had got to their supper 
after the play. He bade his man give no hint to my Lady 
Dowager’s household of the expedition on which he was 
going : and as Chelsey was distant from London, the roads 
bad, and infested by footpads, and Esmond often in the habit, 
when engaged in a party of pleasure, of lying at a friend’s 
lodging in town, there was no need that his old aunt should 
be disturbed at his absence — indeed, nothing more delighted 
the old lady than to fancy that mon Cousin, the incorrigible 
young sinner, was abroad boxing the watch, or scouring St 
Giles’s. When she was not at her books of devotion, she 
thought Etheridge and Sedley very good reading. She had a 
hundred pretty stories about Rochester, Harry Jermyn, and 
Hamilton ; and if Esmond would but have run away with the 
wife even of a citizen, ’tis my belief she would have pawned 
her diamonds (the best of them went to our Lady of Chaillot) 
to pay his damages. 

My Lord’s little house of Walcote — which he inhabited 
before he took his title and occupied the house of Castlewood 
— lies about a mile from Winchester, and his widow had re- 
turned to Walcote after my Lord’s death as a place always 
dear to her, and where her earliest and happiest days had been 
spent, cheerfuller than Castlewood, which was too large for her 


2o6 


The History of 

straightened means, and giving her, too, the protection of 
the ex-Dean her father. The young Viscount had a year’s 
schooling at the famous college there, with Mr Tusher as 
his governor. So much news of them Mr Esmond had had 
during the past year from the old Viscountess, his own 
father’s widow ; from the young one there had never been 
a word. 

Twice or thrice in his benefactor’s lifetime, Esmond had 
been to Walcote ; and now, taking but a couple of hours’ 
rest only at the inn on the road, he was up again long before 
daybreak, and made such good speed that he was at Walcote 
by two o’clock of the day. He rid to the end of the village, 
where he alighted and sent a man thence to Mr Tusher with 
a message that a gentleman from London would speak with 
him on urgent business. The messenger came back to say 
the Doctor was in town, most likely at prayers in the 
Cathedral. My Lady Viscountess was there too ; she 
always went to Cathedral prayers every day. 

The horses belonged to the post-house at Winchester. 
Esmond mounted again and rode on to the “ George ” ; 
whence he walked, leaving his grumbling domestic at last 
happy with a dinner, straight to the Cathedral. The organ 
was playing : the winter’s day was already growing grey : 
as he passed under the street-arch into the Cathedral yard, 
and made his way into the ancient solemn edifice. 


Chapter VI 

The 29th December 

There was scarce a score of persons in the Cathedral beside 
the Dean and some of his clergy, and the choristers, young 
and old, that performed the beautiful evening prayer. But 
Mr Tusher was one of the officiants, and read from the eagle 
in an authoritative voice, and a great black periwig : and in 
the stalls, still in her black widow’s hood, sat Esmond’s dear 
mistress, her son by her side, very much grown, and indeed a 
noble-looking youth, with his mother’s eyes, and his father’s 



AND IK THE STALLS. STILL IN HER, WIDOW’S 
BLACK HOOD, SAT ESMOND’S DEAR. MISTRESS, 
HER 50H BY HER SIDE BOOKMl- CHAP-Vl* 











207 


Henry Esmond 

curling brown hair, that fell over his point de Venise — a pretty 
picture such as Vandyke might have painted. Monsieur 
Rigaud’s portrait of my Lord Viscount, done at Paris 
afterwards, gives but a French version of his manly, frank, 
English face. When he looked up, there were two sapphire 
beams out of his eyes such as no painter’s palette has the 
colour to match, I think. On this day there was not much 
chance of seeing that particular beauty of my young Lord’s 
countenance \ for the truth is, he kept his eyes shut for the 
most part, and, the anthem being rather long, was asleep. 

But the music ceasing, my Lord woke up, looking about 
him, and his eyes lighting on Mr Esmond, who was sitting 
opposite him, gazing with no small tenderness and melancholy 
upon two persons who had so much of his heart for so many 
years, Lord Castlewood, with a start, pulled at his mother’s 
sleeve (her face had scarce been lifted from her book), and 
said, “ Look, mother ! ” so loud, that Esmond could hear on 
the other side of the church, and the old Dean on his throned 
stall. Lady Castlewood looked for an instant as her son bade 
her, and held up a warning finger to Frank; Esmond felt his 
whole face flush, and his heart throbbing, as that dear lady 
beheld him once more. The rest of the prayers were speedily 
over ; Mr Esmond did not hear them ; nor did his mistress, 
very likely, whose hood went more closely over her face, and 
who never lifted her head again until the service was over, 
the blessing given, and Mr Dean and his procession of ecclesi- 
astics out of the inner chapel. 

Young Castlewood came clambering over the stalls before 
the clergy were fairly gone, and, running up to Esmond, 
eagerly embraced him. My dear, dearest old Harry ! ” he 
said, are you come back ? Have you been to the wars ? 
You’ll take me with you when you go again Why didn’t 
you write to us ? Come to mother ! ” 

Mr Esmond could hardly say more than a “ God bless you, 
my boy ! ” for his heart was very full and grateful at all this 
tenderness on the lad’s part ; and he was as much moved at 
seeing Frank as he was fearful about that other interview 
which was now to take place : for he knew not if the widow 
would reject him as she had done so cruelly a year ago. 


2o8 


The History of 

It was kind of you to come back to us, Henry,” Lady 
Esmond said. ‘‘I thought you might come.” 

“We read of the fleet coming to Portsmouth. Why did 
you not come from Portsmouth ? ” Frank asked, or my Lord 
Viscount, as he now must be called. 

Esmond had thought of that too. He would have given 
one of his eyes so that he might see his dear friends again 
once more ; but believing that his mistress had forbidden him 
her house, he had obeyed her, and remained at a distance. 

“ You had but to ask, and you knew I would be here,” 
he said. 

She gave him her hand, her little fair hand ; there was only 
her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year 
of grief and estrangement was passed. They never had been 
separated. His mistress had never been out of his mind all 
that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison ; nor in the 
camp j nor on shore before the enemy ; nor at sea under the 
stars of solemn midnight ; nor as he watched the glorious rising 
of the dawn : not even at the table, where he sat carousing 
with friends, or at the theatre yonder, where he tried to 
fancy that other eyes were brighter than hers. Brighter eyes 
there might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so dear — 
no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had 
been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth — goddess 
now no more, for he knew of her weaknesses ; and by thought, 
by suffering, and that experience it brings, was older now than 
she ; but more fondly cherished as woman perhaps than ever 
she had been adored as divinity. What is it ? Where lies it ? 
the secret which makes one little hand the dearest of all ? 
Whoever can unriddle that mystery ? Here she was, her son 
by his side, his dear boy. Here she was, weeping and happy. 
She took his hand in both hers ; he felt her tears. It was a 
rapture of reconciliation. 

“Here comes Squaretoes,” says Frank. “Here’s Tusher.” 

Tusher, indeed, now appeared, creeking on his great heels. 
Mr Tom had divested himself of his alb or surplice, and came 
forward habited in his cassock and great black periwig. How 
had Esmond ever been for a moment jealous of this fellow ? 

“ Give us thy hand, Tom Tusher,” he said. The Chaplain 


209 


Henry Esmond 

made him a very low and stately bow. “ I am charmed to see 
Captain Esmond,” says he. “ My Lord and I have read the 
Reddas incolumem precor, and applied it, I am sure, to you. 
You come back with Gaditanian laurels : when I heard 
you were bound thither, I wished, I am sure, I was another 
Septimius. My Lord Viscount, your Lordship remembers, 
Septimi Gades aditure mecum ? ” 

“ There’s an angle of earth that I love better than Gades, 
Tusher,” says Mr Esmond. “ ’Tis that one where your 
reverence hath a parsonage, and where our youth was 
brought up.” 

“ A house that has so many sacred recollections to me,” 
says Mr Tusher (and Harry remembered how Tom’s father 
used to flog him there) — ‘‘ a house near to that of my respected 
patron, my most honoured patroness, must ever be a dear 
abode to me. But, Madam, the verger waits to close the gates 
:on your Ladyship.” 

“ And Harry’s coming home to supper. Huzzay ! huzzay ! ” 
j cries my Lord. ‘‘ Mother, I shall run home and bid Beatrix 
jput her ribbons on. Beatrix is a maid of honour, Harry. 
Such a fine set-up minx ! ” 

“ Your heart was never in the Church, Harry,” the widow 
said, in her sweet low tone, as they walked away together. 
(Now, it seemed they had never been parted, and again, as if 
they had been ages asunder.) ‘‘ I always thought you had no 
vocation that way ; and that ’twas a pity to shut you out from 
the world. You would but have pined and chafed at Castle- 
wood : and ’tis better you should make a name for yourself. 
I often said so to my dear Lord. How he loved you ! ’Twas 
my Lord that made you stay with us.” 

“I asked no better than to stay near you always,” said Mr 
Esmond. 

“ But to go was best, Harry. When the world cannot give 
peace, you will know where to find it ; but one of your strong 
imagination and eager desires must try the world first before 
he tires of it. ’Twas not to be thought of, or if it once was, 
it was only by my selfishness, that you should remain as chap- 
lain to a country gentleman and tutor to a little boy. You 
are of the blood of the Esmonds, kinsman 5 and that was 


o 


210 


The History of 

always wild in youth. Look at Francis. He is but fifteen, 
and I scarce can keep him in my nest. His talk is all of war 
and pleasure, and he longs to serve in the next campaign. 
Perhaps he and the young Lord Churchill shall go the next. 
Lord Marlborough has been good to us. You know how kind 
they were in my misfortune. And so was your — your father’s 
widow. No one knows how good the world is, till grief comes 
to try us. ’Tis through my Lady Marlborough’s goodness 
that Beatrix hath her place at Court ; and Frank is under my 
Lord Chamberlain. And the dowager lady, your father’s 
widow, has promised to provide for you — has she not ? ” 

Esmond said, “ Yes. As far as present favour went. Lady 
Castlewood was very good to him. And should her mind 
change,” he added gaily, ‘‘as ladies’ minds will, I am strong 
enough to bear my own burden, and make my way somehow. 
Not by the sword very likely. Thousands have a better 
genius for that than I, but there are many ways in which a 
young man of good parts and education can get on in the 
world j and I am pretty sure, one way or other, of pro- 
motion ! ” Indeed, he had found patrons already in the army, 
and amongst persons very able to serve him too ; and told his 
mistress of the flattering aspect of fortune. They walked as 
though they had never been parted, slowly, with the grey 
twilight closing round them. 

“ And now we are drawing near to home,” she continued, 
“ I knew you would come, Harry, if — if it was but to forgive 
me for having spoken unjustly to you after that horrid — 
horrid misfortune. I was half frantic with grief then when I 
saw you. And I know now — they have told me. That 
wretch, whose name I can never mention, even has said it ; 
how you tried to avert the quarrel, and would have taken it on 
yourself, my poor child : but it was God’s will that I should 
be punished, and that my dear lord should fall.” 

“ He gave me his blessing on his death-bed,” Esmond said. 
“ Thank God for that legacy ! ” 

“ Amen, amen ! dear Henry,” said the lady, pressing his 
arm. “ I knew it. Mr Atterbury, of St Bride’s, who was 
called to him, told me so. And I thanked God, too, and 
in my prayers ever since remembered it,” 


21 I 


Henry Esmond 

“ You had spared me many a bitter night, had you told me 
sooner,” Mr Esmond said. 

‘‘ I know it, I know it,” she answered, in a tone of such 
sweet humility, as made Esmond repent that he should ever 
have dared to reproach her. ‘‘ I know how wicked my heart 
has been ; and I have suffered too, my dear. I confessed to 
Mr Atterbury — I must not tell any more. He — I said I 
would not write to you or go to you — and it was better even 
that, having parted, we should part. But I knew you would 
come back — I own that. That is no one’s fault. And 
to-day, Henry, in the anthem, when they sang it, ‘ When the 
Lord turned the captivity of Zion, we were like them that 
dream,’ I thought, yes, like them that dream — them that 
dream. And then it went, ‘ They that sow in tears shall reap 
in joy ; and he that goeth forth and weepeth, shall doubtless 
come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him ; ’ 
I looked up from the book, and saw you. I was not surprised 
when I saw you. I knew you would come, my dear, and saw 
the gold sunshine round your head.” 

She smiled an almost wild smile as she looked up at him. 
The moon was up by this time, glittering keen in the frosty 
sky. He could see, for the first time now clearly, her sweet 
careworn face. 

“ Do you know what day it is ? ” she continued. ‘‘ It is 
i the 29th of December — it is your birthday ! But last year 
^ we did not drink it — no, no. My Lord was cold, and my 
Harry was likely to die : and my brain was in a fever ; and 
; we had no wine. But now — now you are come again, 

1 bringing your sheaves with you, my dear.” She burst into 
a wild flood of weeping as she spoke ; she laughed and 
3 sobbed on the young man’s heart, crying out wildly, 
r “ bringing your sheaves with you — your sheaves with you ! ” 
j As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at 
\ midnight into the boundless starlit depths overhead, in a 
rapture of devout wonder at that endless brightness and 
beauty — in some such a way now, the depth of this pure 
devotion (which was, for the first time, revealed to him) 
quite smote upon him, and filled his heart with thanksgiving. 
I Gracious God, who was he, weak and friendless creature, that 


212 


The History of 

such a love should be poured out upon him ? Not in vain — 
not in vain has he lived — hard and thankless should he be to 
think so — that has such a treasure given him. What is 
ambition compared to that, but selfish vanity ? To be rich, 
to be famous ? What do these profit a year hence, when 
other names sound louder than yours, when you lie hidden 
away under the ground, along with idle titles engraven on 
your coffin But only true love lives after you — follows 
your memory with secret blessing — or precedes you, and 
intercedes for you. Non omnis moriar — if dying, I yet live in 
a tender heart or two ; nor am lost and hopeless living, if 
a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for me. 

If — if ’tis so, dear lady,” Mr Esmond said, “ why should I 
ever leave you ? If God hath given me this great boon — and 
near or far from me, as I know now, the heart of my dearest 
mistress follows me, let me have that blessing near me, nor ever 
part with it till death separate us. Come away — leave this 
Europe, this place which has so many sad recollections for you. 
Begin a new life in a new world. My good Lord often talked 
of visiting that land in Virginia which King Charles gave us — 
gave his ancestor. Frank will give us that. No man there 
will ask if there is a blot on my name, or inquire in the woods 
what my title is.” 

‘‘ And my children — and my duty — and my good father, 
Henry ? ” she broke out. “ He has none but me now ! for 
soon my sister will leave him, and the old man will be alone. 
He has conformed since the new Queen’s reign ; and here in 
Winchester, where they love him, they have found a church 
for him. When the children leave me, I will stay with him. 
I cannot follow them into the great world, where their way 
lies — it scares me. They will come and visit me ; and you 
will, sometimes, Henry — yes, sometimes as now, in the Holy 
Advent season, when I have seen and blessed you once more.” 

“ I would leave all to follow you,” said Mr Esmond \ ‘‘ and 
can you not be as generous for me, dear lady ? ” 

Hush, boy ! ” she said, and it was with a mother’s sweet 
plaintive tone and look that she spoke. ‘‘The world is 
beginning for you. For me I have been so weak and sinful 
that I must leave it, and pray out an expiation, dear Henry. 


213 


Henry Esmond 

Had we houses of religion as there were once, and many 
divines of our Church would have them again, I often think I 
would retire to one and pass my life in penance. But I would 
love you still — yes, there is no sin in such a love as mine now; 
and my dear lord in heaven may see my heart ; and knows the 
tears that have washed my sin away — and now — now my duty 
is here, by my children, whilst they need me, and by my poor 

old father, and ” 

And not by me ? ” Henry said. 

“ Hush ! ” she said again, and raised her hand up to his 
lip. “ I have been your nurse. You could not see me, 
Harry, when you were in the small-pox, and I came and sat 
by you. Ah ! I prayed that I might die, but it would have 
been in sin, Henry. Oh, it is horrid to look back to that 
time ! It is over now and past, and it has been forgiven me. 
When you need me again, I will come ever so far. When 
your heart is wounded, then come to me, my dear. Be silent ! 
let me say all. You never loved me, dear Henry — no, you do 
not now, and I thank heaven for it. I used to watch you, 
and knew by a thousand signs that it was so. Do you 
remember how glad you were to go away to College ? 
’Twas I sent you. I told my papa that, and Mr Atterbury 
too, when I spoke to him in London. And they both 
gave me absolution — both — and they are godly men, having 
authority to bind and to loose. And they forgave me, as 
my dear lord forgave me before he went to heaven.” 

“ I think the angels are not all in heaven,” Mr Esmond 
said. And as a brother folds a sister to his heart ; and as 
a mother cleaves to her son’s breast — so for a few moments 
Esmond’s beloved mistress came to him and blessed him. 


Chapter VII 

I am Made Welcome at Walcote 

As they came up to the house at Walcote, the windows from 
within were lighted up with friendly welcome ; the supper- 
table was spread in the oak-parlour; it seemed as if forgiveness 


214 


The History of 

and love were awaiting the returning prodigal. Two or three 
familiar faces of domestics were on the look-out at the porch 
— the old housekeeper was there, and young Lockwood from 
Castlewood in my Lord’s livery of tawny and blue. His 
dear mistress pressed his arm as they passed into the hall. 
Her eyes beamed out on him with affection indescribable. 
‘‘Welcome!” was all she said, as she looked up, putting 
back her fair curls and black hood. A sweet rosy smile 
blushed on her face ; Harry thought he had never seen her 
look so charming. Her face was lighted with a joy that was 
brighter than beauty — she took a hand of her son, who was in 
the hall waiting his mother — she did not quit Esmond’s arm. 

“Welcome, Harry!” my young lord echoed after her. 
“ Here, we are all come to say so. Here’s old Pincot, hasn’t 
she grown handsome ? and Pincot, who was older and no 
handsomer than usual, made a curtsey to the Captain, as she 
called Esmond, and told my Lord to “ Have done, now ! ” 

“ And here’s Jack Lockwood. He’ll make a famous 
grenadier. Jack ; and so shall I ; we’ll both ’list under you. 
Cousin. As soon as I am seventeen, I go to the army — 
every gentleman goes to the army. Look ! who comes here 
— ho, ho ! ” he burst into a laugh. “ ’Tis Mistress Trix, 
with a new ribbon; I knew she would put one on as soon 
as she heard a captain was coming to supper.” 

This laughing colloquy took place in the hall of Walcote 
House : in the midst of which is a staircase that leads from an 
open gallery, where are the doors of the sleeping chambers : 
and from one of these, a wax candle in her hand, and illumi- 
nating her, came Mistress Beatrix — the light falling indeed 
upon the scarlet ribbon which she wore, and upon the most 
brilliant white neck in the world. 

Esmond had left a child and found a woman, grown beyond 
the common height ; and arrived at such a dazzling complete- 
ness of beauty, that his eyes might well show surprise and 
delight at beholding her. In hers there was a brightness so 
lustrous and melting, that I have seen a whole assembly follow 
her as if by an attraction irresistible ; and that night the great 
Duke was at the playhouse after Ramillies, every soul turned 
and looked (she chanced to enter at the opposite side of the 















so SHE came: holding her dress with 

ONE FAIR ROUNDED ARM BOOK llvCHAPVIl- 


Henry Esmond 2 1 5 

theatre at the same moment) at her, and not at him. She was 
a brown beauty ; that is, her eyes, hair, and eyebrows, and 
eyelashes were dark : her hair curling with rich undulations, 
and waving over her shoulders ; but her complexion was as 
dazzling white as snow in sunshine : except her cheeks, which 
were a bright red, and her lips, which were of a still deeper 
crimson. Her mouth and chin, they said, were too large and 
full, and so they might be for a goddess in marble, but not for 
a woman whose eyes were fire, whose look was love, whose 
voice was the sweetest low song, whose shape was perfect 
symmetry, health, decision, activity, whose foot as it planted 
itself on the ground was firm but flexible, and whose motion, 
whether rapid or slow, was always perfect grace — agile as a 
nymph, lofty as a queen — now melting, now imperious, now 
sarcastic — there was no single movement of hers but was 
beautiful. As he thinks of her, he who writes feels young 
again, and remembers a paragon. 

So she came holding her dress with one fair rounded arm, 
and her taper before her, tripping down the stair to greet 
Esmond. 

She hath put on her scarlet stockings and white shoes,” 
says my Lord, still laughing. ‘‘ Oh my fine mistress ! is this 
the way you set your cap at the Captain ? ” She approached, 
shining smiles upon Esmond, who could look at nothing but 
her eyes. She advanced holding forward her head, as if she 
would have him kiss her as he used to do when he was 
a child. 

“ Stop,” she said, “lam grown too big ! Welcome, Cousin 
Harry ! ” and she made him an arch curtsey, sweeping down 
to the ground almost, with the most gracious bend, looking up 
the while with the brightest eyes and sweetest smile. Love 
seemed to radiate from her. Harry eyed her with such a 
rapture as the first lover is described as having by Milton. 

“ N’est-ce pas says my Lady, in a low, sweet voice, still 
hanging on his arm. 

Esmond turned round with a start and a blush, as he met 
his mistress’ clear eyes. He had forgotten her, rapt in admira- 
tion of the Jilia pulcrior. 

“ Right foot forward, toe turned out, so ; now drop the 


2i6 


The History of 

curtsey, and show the red stockings, Trix. They’ve silver 
clocks, Harry. The Dowager sent ’em. She went to put ’em 
on,” cries my Lord. 

“ Hush, you stupid child ! ” says Miss, smothering her 
brother with kisses ; and then she must come and kiss her 
mamma, looking all the while at Harry, over his mistress’ 
shoulder. And if she did not kiss him, she gave him both her 
hands, and then took one of his in both hands, and said, “ Oh, 
Harry, we’re so, so glad you’re come ! ” 

“ There are woodcocks for supper,” says my Lord. “ Huz- 
zay ! It was such a hungry sermon.” 

“ And it is the 29th of December ; and our Harry has come 
home.” 

“ Huzzay, old Pincot ! ” again says my Lord ; and my dear 
lady’s lips looked as if they were trembling with a prayer. 
She would have Harry lead in Beatrix to the supper-room, 
going herself with my young Lord Viscount ; and to this 
party came Tom Tusher directly, whom four at least out of 
the company of five wished away. Away he went, however, 
as soon as the sweetmeats were put down, and then, by the 
great crackling fire, his mistress or Beatrix, with her blushing 
graces, filling his glass for him, Harry told the story of his 
campaign, and passed the most delightful night his life had 
ever known. The sun was up long ere he was, so deep, sweet, 
and refreshing was his slumber. He woke as if angels had 
been watching at his bed all night. I dare say one that was 
as pure and loving as an angel had blessed his sleep with her 
prayers. 

Next morning the Chaplain read prayers to the little house- 
hold at Walcote, as the custom was ; Esmond thought Mistress 
Beatrix did not listen to Tusher’s exhortation much : her eyes 
were wandering everywhere during the service, at least when- 
ever he looked up he met them. Perhaps he also was not very 
attentive to his Reverence the Chaplain. “ This might have 
been my life,” he was thinking ; “ this might have been my 
duty from now till old age. Well, were it not a pleasant one 
to be with these dear friends and part from ’em no more ? 
Until — until the destined lover comes and takes away pretty 
Beatrix” — and the best part of Tom Tusher’s exposition, 


Henry Esmond 217 

which may have been very learned and eloquent, was quite 
lost to poor Harry by this vision of the destined lover, who put 
the preacher out. 

All the while of the prayers, Beatrix knelt a little way 
before Harry Esmond. The red stockings were changed for 
a pair of grey, and black shoes, in which her feet looked to the 
full as pretty. All the roses of spring could not vie with the 
brightness of her complexion; Esmond thought he had never seen 
anything like the sunny lustre of her eyes. My Lady Viscountess 
looked fatigued, as if with watching, and her face was pale. 

Miss Beatrix remarked these signs of indisposition in her 
mother and deplored them. “I am an old woman,” says my 
Lady, with a kind smile ; “ I cannot hope to look as young as 
you do, my dear.” 

“ She’ll never look as good as you do if she lives till she’s a 
hundred,” says my Lord, taking his mother by the waist, and 
kissing her hand. 

“ Do I look very wicked. Cousin ? ” says Beatrix, turning 
full round on Esmond, with her pretty face so close under 
his chin, that the*soft perfumed hair touched it. She laid her 
finger-tips on his sleeve as she spoke ; and he put his other 
hand over hers. 

“I’m like your looking-glass,” says he, “and that can’t 
flatter you.” 

“ He means that you are always looking at him, my dear,” 
says her mother archly. Beatrix ran away from Esmond at 
this, and flew to her mamma, whom she kissed, stopping my 
Lady’s mouth with her pretty hand. 

“ And Harry is very good to look at,” says my Lady, with 
her fond eyes regarding the young man. 

“ If ’tis good to see a happy face,” says he, “ you see that.” 
My Lady said, “ Amen,” with a sigh ; and Harry thought the 
memory of her dear lord rose up and rebuked her back again 
into sadness ; for her face lost the smile, and resumed its look 
of melancholy. 

“ Why, Harry, how fine we look in our scarlet and silver, 
and our black periwig ! ” cries my Lord. “ Mother, I am 
tired of my own hair. When shall I have a peruke ? Where 
did you get your steenkirk, Harry ? ” 


2iS The History of 

“ It’s some of my Lady Dowager’s lace,” says Harry ; ‘‘she 
gave me this and a number of other fine things.” 

“ My Lady Dowager isn’t such a bad woman,” my Lord 
continued. 

“ She’s not so — so red as she’s painted,” says Miss Beatrix. 

Her brother broke into a laugh. “ I’ll tell her you said so ; 
by the Lord, Trix, I will ! ” he cries out. 

“ She’ll know that you hadn’t the wit to say it, my Lord,” 
says Miss Beatrix. 

“We won’t quarrel the first day Harry’s here, will we, 
mother ? ” said the young lord. “ We’ll see if we can get on 
to the new year without a fight. Have some of this Christ- 
mas pie. And here comes the tankard j no, it’s Pincot with 
the tea.” 

“ Will the Captain choose a dish ? ” asked Mistress Beatrix. 

“ I say, Harry,” my Lord goes on, “ I’ll show thee my 
horses after breakfast ; and we’ll go a bird-netting to-night, 
and on Monday there’s a cock-match at Winchester — do you 
love cock-fighting, Harry ? — between the gentlemen of Sussex 
and the gentlemen of Hampshire, at ten pound the battle, and 
fifty pound the odd battle to show one-and-twenty cocks.” 

“ And what will you do, Beatrix, to amuse our kinsman ? ” 
asks my lady. 

“ I’ll listen to him,” says Beatrix. “ I am sure he has a 
hundred things to tell us. And I’m jealous already of the 
Spanish ladies. Was that a beautiful nun at Cadiz that you 
rescued from the soldiers ? Your man talked of it last night 
in the kitchen, and Mrs Betty told me this morning as she 
combed my hair. And he says you must be in love, for you 
sat on deck all night, and scribbled verses all day in your 
table-book.” Harry thought if he had wanted a subject for 
verses yesterday, to-day he had found one; and not all the 
Lindamiras and Ardelias of the poets were half so beautiful 
as this young creature ; but he did not say so, though some 
one did for him. 

This was his dear lady, who, after the meal was over, and 
the young people were gone, began talking of her children 
with Mr Esmond, and of the characters of one and the other, 
and of her hopes and fears for both of them. “ ’Tis not while 


219 


Henry Esmond 

they are at home,” she said, “ and in their mother’s nest, I fear 
for them — ’tis when they are gone into the world, whither 
I shall not be able to follow them. Beatrix will begin her 
service next year. You may have heard a rumour about — 
about my Lord Blandford. They were both children ; and it 
is but idle talk. I know my kinswoman would never let him 
make such a poor marriage as our Beatrix would be. There’s 
scarce a princess in Europe that she thinks is good enough for 
him or for her ambition.” 

“ There’s not a princess in Europe to compare with her,” 
says Esmond. 

In beauty ? No, perhaps not,” answered my Lady. “ She 
is most beautiful, isn’t she ? ’Tis not a mother’s partiality 
that deceives me. I marked you yesterday when she came 
down the stair : and read it in your face. We look when 
you don’t fancy us looking, and see better than you think, 
dear Harry : and just now when they spoke about your poems 
— you writ pretty lines when you were but a boy — you 
thought Beatrix was a pretty subject for verse, did not you, 
Harry ? (The gentleman could only blush for a reply.) 
“ And so she is — nor are you the first her pretty face has 
captivated. ’Tis quickly done. Such a pair of bright eyes as 
hers learn their power very soon, and use it very early.” And, 
looking at him keenly with hers, the fair widow left him. 

And so it is — a pair of bright eyes with a dozen glances 
suffice to subdue a man j to enslave him, and inflame him ; to 
make him even forget ; they dazzle him so that the past 
becomes straightway dim to him j and he so prizes them that 
he would give all his life to possess ’em. What is the fond 
love of dearest friends compared to this treasure ? Is memory 
as strong as expectancy ? fruition, as hunger ? gratitude, as 
desire ? I have looked at royal diamonds in the jewel-rooms 
in Europe, and thought how wars have been made about ’em ; 
Mogul sovereigns deposed and strangled for them, or ran- 
somed with them ; millions expended to buy them , and daring 
lives lost in digging out the little shining toys that I value no 
more than the button in my hat. And so there are other 
glittering baubles (of rare water too) for which men have 
been set to kill and quarrel ever since mankind began ; and 


220 


The History of 

which last but for a score of years, when their sparkle is over. 
Where are those jewels now that beamed under Cleopatra’s 
forehead, or shone in the sockets of Helen ? 

The second day after Esmond’s coming to Walcote, Tom 
Tusher had leave to take a holiday, and went off in his very 
best gown and bands to court the young woman whom his 
Reverence desired to marry, and who was not a viscount’s 
widow, as it turned out, but a brewer’s relict at Southampton, 
with a couple of thousand pounds to her fortune : for honest 
Tom’s heart was under such excellent control, that Venus 
herself without a portion would never have caused it to flutter. 
So he rode away on his heavy-paced gelding to pursue his 
jog-trot loves, leaving Esmond to the society of his dear 
mistress and her daughter, and with his young Lord for a com- 
panion, who was charmed, not only to see an old friend, but 
to have the tutor and his Latin books put out of the way. 

The boy talked of things and people, and not a little about 
himself, in his frank, artless way. ’Twas easy to see that he 
and his sister had the better of their fond mother, for the first 
place in whose affections, though they fought constantly, and 
though the kind lady persisted that she loved both equally, 
’twas not difficult to understand that Frank was his mother’s 
darling and favourite. He ruled the whole household (always 
excepting rebellious Beatrix) not less now than when he was 
a child marshalling the village boys in playing at soldiers, and 
caning them lustily too, like the sturdiest corporal. As for 
Tom Tusher, his Reverence treated the young lord with 
that politeness and deference which he always showed for a 
great man, whatever his age or his stature was. Indeed, 
with respect to this young one, it was impossible not to 
love him, so frank and winning were his manners, his beauty, 
his gaiety, the ring of his laughter, and the delightful tone 
of his voice. Wherever he went, he charmed and domi- 
neered. I think his old grandfather, the Dean, and the grim 
old housekeeper, Mrs Pincot, were as much his slaves as 
his mother was : and as for Esmond, he found himself pre- 
sently submitting to a certain fascination the boy had, and 
slaving it like the rest of the family. The pleasure which 
he had in Frank’s mere company and converse exceeded that 


221 


Henry Esmond 

which he ever enjoyed in the society of any other man, how- 
ever delightful in talk, or famous for wit. His presence brought 
sunshine into a room, his laugh, his prattle, his noble beauty 
and brightness of look cheered and charmed indescribably. 
At the least tale of sorrow, his hands were in his purse, and 
he was eager with sympathy and bounty. The way in which 
women loved and petted him, when, a year or two after- 
wards, he came upon the world, yet a mere boy, and the follies 
which they did for him (as indeed he for them), recalled the 
career of Rochester, and outdid the successes of Grammont. 
His very creditors loved him ; and the hardest usurers, and 
some of the rigid prudes of the other sex too, could deny him 
nothing. He was no more witty than another man, but what 
he said, he said and looked as no man else could say or look 
it. I have seen the women at the comedy at Bruxelles crowd 
round him in the lobby : and as he sat on the stage more people 
looked at him than at the actors, and watched him ; and I 
remember at Ramillies, when he was hit and fell, a great big 
red-haired Scotch sergeant flung his halbert down, burst out 
a-crying like a woman, seizing him up as if he had been an 
infant, and carrying him out of the fire. This brother and sister 
were the most beautiful couple ever seen ; though after he 
winged away from the maternal nest this pair were seldom 
together. 

Sitting at dinner two days after Esmond’s arrival (it was the 
last day of the year), and so happy a one to Harry Esmond, that 
to enjoy it was quite worth all the previous pain which he had 
endured and forgot, my young Lord, filling a bumper, and 
bidding Harry take another, drank to his sister, saluting her 
under the title of “ Marchioness.” 

“ Marchioness ! ” says Harry, not without a pang of wonder, 
for he was curious and jealous already. 

“ Nonsense, my Lord,” says Beatrix, with a toss of her head. 
My Lady Viscountess looked up for a moment at Esmond and 
cast her eyes down. 

“ The Marchioness of Blandford,” says Frank. “ Don’t you 
know — hath not Rouge Dragon told you ? ” (My Lord used 
to call the Dowager of Chelsey by this and other names.) 
“ Blandford has a lock of her hair : the Duchess found him on 


222 


The History of 

his knees to Mistress Trix, and boxed his ears, and said Dr 
Hare should whip him.” 

I wish Mr Tusher would whip you too,” says Beatrix. 

My Lady only said: “I hope you will tell none of these 
silly stories elsewhere than at home, Francis.” 

“ ’Tis true, on my word,” continues Frank. ‘‘Look at 
Harry scowling, mother, and see how Beatrix blushes as red 
as the silver-clocked stockings.” 

“ I think we had best leave the gentlemen to their wine and 
their talk,” says Mistress Beatrix, rising up with the air of a 
young queen, tossing her rustling flowing draperies about her, 
and quitting the room followed by her mother. 

Lady Castlewood again looked at Esmond, as she stooped 
down and kissed Frank. “ Do not tell those silly stories, child,” 
she said : “ do not drink much wine, sir ; Harry never loved 
to drink wine.” And she went away, too, in her black robes, 
looking back on the young man with her fair, fond face. 

“ Egad ! it’s true,” says Frank, sipping his wine with the 
air of a lord. “ What think you of this Lisbon — real Collares ? 
’Tis better than your heady port : we got it out of one of 
the Spanish ships that came from Vigo last year : my mother 
bought it at Southampton, as the ship was lying there — the 
Rosej Captain Hawkins.” 

“ Why, I came home in that ship,” says Harry. 

“ And it brought home a good fellow and good wine,” says 
my Lord. “ I say, Harry, I wish thou hadst not that cursed 
bar sinister.” 

“ And why not the bar sinister ? ” asks the other. 

“ Suppose I go to the army and am killed — every gentleman 
goes to the army — who is to take care of the women ? Trix 
will never stop at home ; mother’s in love with you, — yes, I 
think mother’s in love with you. She was always praising 
you, and always talking about you ; and when she went to 
Southampton, to see the ship, I found her out. But you see 
it is impossible ; we are of the oldest blood in England ; we 
came in with the Conqueror; we were only baronets, — but 
what then ? we were forced into that. James the First forced 
our great-grandfather. We are above titles ; we old English 
gentry don’t want ’em ; the Queen can make a duke any day. 


223 


Henry Esmond 

Look at Blandford’s father, Duke Churchill, and Duchess 
Jennings, what were they, Harry ? Damn it, sir, what are 
they, to turn up their noses at us ? Where were they when 
our ancestor rode with King Henry at Agincourt, and filled 
up the French King’s cup after Poictiers ? ’Fore George, sir, 
why shouldn’t Blandford marry Beatrix ? By G — d ! he shah 
marry Beatrix, or tell me the reason why. We’ll marry with 
the best blood of England, and none but the best blood of 
England. You are an Esmond, and you can’t help your birth, 
my boy. Let’s have another bottle. What ! no more } I’ve 
drunk three parts of this myself. I had many a night with my 
father; you stood to him like a man, Harry. You backed 
your blood ; you can’t help your misfortune, you know, — no 
man can help that.” 

The elder said he would go in to his mistress’ tea-table. 
The young lad, with a heightened colour and voice, began 
singing a snatch of a song, and marched out of the room. 
Esmond heard him presently calling his dogs about him, and 
cheering and talking to them ; and by a hundred of his looks 
and gestures, tricks of voice and gait, was reminded of the 
dead Lord, Frank’s father. 

And so, the Sylvester night passed away ; the family parted 
long before midnight. Lady Castle wood remembering, no 
I doubt, former New Year’s Eves, when healths were drunk, 

! and laughter went round in the company of him, to whom 
years, past, and present, and future, were to be as one ; and so 
i cared not to sit with her children and hear the Cathedral bells 
ringing the birth of the year 1703. Esmond heard the chimes 
as he sat in his own chamber, ruminating by the blazing fire 
there, and listened to the last notes of them, looking out from 
his window towards the city, and the great grey towers of 
the Cathedral lying under the frosty sky, with the keen stars 
shining above. 

The sight of these brilliant orbs no doubt made him think 
i of other luminaries. ‘‘ And so her eyes have already done 
I execution,” thought Esmond — on whom } who can tell me ?” 
Luckily his kinsman was by, and Esmond knew he would have 
no difficulty in finding out Mistress Beatrix’s history from the 
simple talk of the boy. 


224 


The History of 


Chapter VIII 

Family Talk 

What Harry admired and submitted to in the pretty lad his 
kinsman was (for why should he resist it ?) the calmness of 
patronage which my young lord assumed, as if to command 
was his undoubted right, and all the world (below his degree) 
ought to bow down to Viscount Castlewood. 

“ I know my place, Harry,” he said. “ Fm not proud — 
the boys at Winchester College say Fm proud : but Fm not 
proud. I am simply Francis James Viscount Castlewood in 
the peerage of Ireland. I might have been (do you know 
that ?) Francis James, Marquis and Earl of Esmond in that of 
England. The late lord refused the title which was offered 
to him by my godfather, his late Majesty. You should know 
that — you are of our family, you know — you cannot help your 
bar sinister, Harry, my dear fellow ; and you belong to one of 
the best families in England, in spite of that ; and you stood 
by my father, and by G — ! Fll stand by you. You shall never 
want a friend, Harry, while Francis James Viscount Castle- 
wood has a shilling. It’s now 1703 — I shall come of age in 
1709. I shall go back to Castlewood; I shall live at Castle- 
wood ; I shall build up the house. My property will be pretty 
well restored by then. The late Viscount mismanaged my 
property, and left it in a very bad state. My mother is living 
close, as you see, and keeps me in a way hardly befitting a 
peer of these realms ; for I have but a pair of horses, a gover- 
nor, and a man that is valet and groom. But when I am of 
age, these things will be set right, Harry. Our house will be 
as it should be. You will always come to Castlewood, won’t 
you ? You shall always have your two rooms in the court 

kept for you ; and if anybody slights you, d them ! let 

them have a care of me, I shall marry early — Trix will be a 
duchess by that time, most likely : for a cannon-ball may 
knock over his Grace any day, you know.” 

“ How ? ” says Harry. 

“ Hush, my dear ! ” says my Lord Viscount. “ You are of 


225 


Henry Esmond 

the family — you are faithful to us, by George, and I tell you 
everything. Blandford will marry her — or — ” and here he 
put his little hand on his sword — “ you understand the rest. 
Blandford knows which of us two is the best weapon. At 
small-sword, or back-sword, or sword and dagger if he likes, 
I can beat him. I have tried him, Harry ; and begad he knows 
I am a man not to be trifled with.” 

“ But you do not mean,” says Harry, concealing his laugh- 
ter, but not his wonder, that you can force my Lord Bland- 
ford, the son of the first man of this kingdom, to marry your 
sister at sword’s point ? ” 

‘‘ I mean to say that we are cousins by the mother’s side, 
though that’s nothing to boast of. I mean to say that an 
Esmond is as good as a Churchill ; and when the King comes 
back, the Marquis of Esmond’s sister may be a match for 
any nobleman’s daughter in the kingdom. There are but 
two marquises in all England, William Herbert, Marquis of 
Powis, and Francis James, Marquis of Esmond ; and hark you, 
Harry — now swear you will never mention this. Give me 
your honour as a gentleman, for you are a gentleman, though 
you are a ” 

“ Well, well ? ” says Harry, a little impatient. 

“Well, then, when, after my late Viscount’s misfortune, my 
mother went up with us to London, to ask for justice against 
you all (as for Mohun, I’ll have his blood, as sure as my 
name is Francis Viscount Esmond) — we went to stay with our 
cousin my Lady Marlborough, with whom we had quarrelled 
for ever "so long. But when misfortune came she stood by 
her blood; — so did the Dowager Viscountess stand by her 
blood; — so did you. Well, sir, whilst my mother was 
petitioning the late Prince of Orange — for I will never call 
him King — and while you were in prison, we lived at my 
Lord Marlborough’s house, who was only a little there, being 
away with the army in Holland. And then ... I say, 
Harry, you won’t tell, now ? ” 

Harry again made a vow of secrecy. 

“Well, there used to be all sorts of fun, you know; my 
Lady Marlborough was very fond of us, and she said I was to 
be her page ; and she got Trix to be a maid of honour, and 


226 


The History of 

while she was up in her room crying, we used to be always ; 
having fun, you know ; and the Duchess used to kiss me, 
and so did her daughters, and Blandford fell tremendous in 
love with Trix, and she liked him j and one day he — he kissed 
her behind a door — he did though — and the Duchess caught 
him, and she banged such a box of the ear both at Trix and j 
Blandford — you should have seen it ! And then she said that 
we must leave directly, and abused my mamma who was 
cognisant of the business ; but she wasn’t — never thinking 
about anything but father. And so we came down to Wal- 
cote ; Blandford being locked up, and not allowed to see Trix. 
But I got at him. I climbed along the gutter, and in through 
the window, where he was crying. 

“ ‘ Marquis,’ says I, when he had opened it and helped me 
in, ‘ you know I wear a sword,’ for I had brought it. 

“ ‘ Oh, Viscount,’ says he — ‘ oh, my dearest Frank ! ’ and he 
threw himself into my arms and burst out a-crying. ‘ I do love 
Mistress Beatrix so, that I shall die if I don’t have her.’ 

‘‘ ‘ My dear Blandford,’ says I, ‘ you are young to think of 
marrying ; ’ for he was but fifteen, and a young fellow of that 
age can scarce do so, you know. 

‘“But I’ll wait twenty years, if she’ll have me,’ says he. 

‘ I’ll never marry — no, never, never, never, marry anybody but 
her. No, not a princess, though they would have me do it 
ever so. If Beatrix will wait for me, her Blandford swears he > 
will be faithful.’ And he wrote a paper (it wasn’t spelt right, j 
for he wrote ‘ I’m ready to sine nvith my blode^ which, you 
know, Harry, isn’t the way of spelling it), and vowing that he i 
would marry none other but the Honourable Mistress Ger- I 
trude Beatrix Esmond, only sister of his dearest friend Francis I 
James, fourth Viscount Esmond. And so I gave him a locket I 
of her hair.” 

“ A locket of her hair ? ” cries Esmond. i 

“ Yes. Trix gave me' one after the fight with the Duchess 
that very day. I am sure I didn’t want it ; and so I gave it 
him, and we kissed at parting, and said, ‘ Good-bye, brother !’ 
And I got back through the gutter ; and we set off home that 
very evening. And he went to King’s College, in Cambridge, 
and T m going to Cambridge soon ; and if he doesn’t stand to 


Henry Esmond 227 

his promise (for he’s only wrote once ), — he knows I wear a 
sword, Harry. Come along, and let’s go see the cocking-match 
at Winchester.” 

“ . . . But I say,” he added, laughing, after a pause, “ I 
don’t think Trix will break her heart about him. La bless 
you ! whenever she sees a man, she makes eyes at him ; and 
young Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen’s Crawley, and Anthony 
Henley of Alresford, were at swords drawn about her, at the 
Winchester Assembly, a month ago.” 

That night Mr Harry’s sleep was by no means so pleasant 
or sweet as it had been on the first two evenings after his 
arrival at Walcote. “ So the bright eyes have been already 
shining on another,” thought he, “and the pretty lips, or the 
I cheeks at any rate, have begun the work which they were 
I made for. Here’s a girl not sixteen, and one young gentleman 
I is already whimpering over a lock of her hair, and two country 
squires are ready to cut each other’s throats that they may have 
the honour of a dance with her. What a fool am I to be 
dallying about this passion, and singeing my wings in this 
foolish flame ! Wings ! — why not say crutches ? There is 
but eight years’ difference between us, to be sure ; but in life 
I am thirty years older. How could I ever hope to please 
. such a sweet creature as that, with my rough ways and glum 
face ? Say that I have merit ever so much, and won myself a 
name, could she ever listen to me ? She must be my Lady 
Marchioness, and I remain a nameless bastard. Oh ! my 
master, my master ! ” (Here he fell to thinking with a pas- 
sionate grief of the vow which he had made to his poor dying 
lord.) “ Oh ! my mistress dearest and kindest, will you be 
contented with the sacrifice which the poor orphan makes for 
you, whom you love, and who so loves you ? ” 

And then came a fiercer pang of temptation. “A word 
from me,” Harry thought, “ a syllable of explanation, and all 
this might be changed ; but no, I swore it over the dying bed 
of my benefactor. For the sake of him and his ; for the 
sacred love and kindness of old days ; I gave my promise to 
him, and may kind Heaven enable me to keep my vow ! ” 

The next day, although Esmond gave no sign of what was 
going on in his mind, but strove to be more than ordinarily 


228 


The History of 

gay and cheerful when he met his friends at the morning meal, 
his dear mistress, whose clear eyes it seemed no emotion of 
his could escape, perceived that something troubled him, for 
she looked anxiously towards him more than once during the 
breakfast, and when he went up to his chamber afterwards she 
presently followed him and knocked at his door. 

As she entered, no doubt the whole story was clear to her 
at once, for she found our young gentleman packing his valise, 
pursuant to the resolution which he had come to over-night of 
making a brisk retreat out of this temptation. 

She closed the door very carefully behind her, and then 
leant against it, very pale, her hands folded before her, looking , 
at the young man, who was kneeling over his work of packing, j 

‘‘ Are you going so soon ? ” she said. | 

He rose up from his knees, blushing, perhaps, to be so dis- 
covered, in the very act, as it were, and took one of her fair | 
little hands — it was that which had her marriage ring on — and 
kissed it. 

‘‘ It is best that it should be so, dearest lady,” he said. 

“ I knew you were going, at breakfast. I — I thought you 
might stay. What has happened ? Why can’t you remain 
longer with us ? What has Frank told you — you were talking 
together late last night ? ” 

“ I had but three days’ leave from Chelsey,” Esmond said, 
as gaily as he could. “ My aunt — she lets me call her aunt 
— is my mistress now ! I owe her my lieutenancy and my 
laced coat. She has taken me into high favour ; and my new 
General is to dine at Chelsey to-morrow — General Lumley, 
madam — who has appointed me his aide-de-camp, and on 
whom I must have the honour of waiting. See, here is a 
letter from the Dowager; the post brought it last night; 
and I would not speak of it, for fear of disturbing our last 
merry meeting.” 

My Lady glanced at the letter, and put it down with a 
smile that was somewhat contemptuous. ‘‘ I have no need to 
read the letter,” says she — (indeed, ’twas as well she did not ; 
for the Chelsey missive, in the poor Dowager’s usual French 
jargon, permitted him a longer holiday than he said. ‘‘Je 
vous donne,” quoth her Ladyship, “ oui jour, pour vous fatigay 


Henry Esmond 229 

parfaictement de vos parens fatigans ”) — “ I have no need to 
read the letter,” says she. ‘‘ What was it Frank told you last 
night ? ” 

He told me little I did not know,” Mr Esmond answered. 
“But I have thought of that little, and here’s the result: I 
have no right to the name I bear, dear lady ; and it is only by 
your sufferance that I am allowed to keep it. If I thought 
for an hour of what has perhaps crossed your mind too ” 

“ Yes, I did, Harry,” said she ; “ I thought of it ; and 
think of it. I would sooner call you my son than the greatest 
prince in Europe — yes, than the greatest prince. For who is 
there so good and so brave, and who would love her as you 
would ? But there are reasons a mother can’t tell.” 

“ I know them,” said Mr Esmond, interrupting her with a 
smile. “ I know there’s Sir Wilmot Crawley of Queen’s 
Crawley, and Mr Anthony Henley of the Grange, and my 
Lord Marquis of Blandford, that seems to be the favoured 
suitor. You shall ask me to wear my Lady Marchioness’s 
favours and to dance at her Ladyship’s wedding.” 

“ Oh ! Harry, Harry, it is none of these follies that frighten 
me,” cried out Lady Castlewood. “ Lord Churchill is but a 
child, his outbreak about Beatrix was a mere boyish folly. His 
parents would rather see him buried than married to one below 
him in rank. And do you think that I would stoop to sue 
for a husband for Francis Esmond’s daughter ; or submit to 
have my girl smuggled into that proud family to cause a 
quarrel between son and parents, and to be treated only as an 
inferior ? I would disdain such a meanness. Beatrix would 
scorn it. Ah ! Henry, ’tis not with you the fault lies, ’tis 
with her. I know you both, and love you : need I be 
ashamed of that love now ? No, never, never, and ’tis not 
you, dear Harry, that is unworthy. ’Tis for my poor Beatrix 
I tremble — whose headstrong will frightens me ; whose 
jealous temper (they say I was jealous too, but, pray God, I 
am cured of that sin), and whose vanity no words or prayers 
of mine can cure — only suffering, only experience, and re- 
morse afterwards. Oh ! Henry, she will make no man happy 
who loves her. Go away, my son : leave her : love us 
always, and think kindly of us : and for me, my dear, you 


230 The History of 

know that these walls contain all that I love in the 
world.” 

In after life, did Esmond find the words true which his 
fond mistress spoke from her sad heart ? Warning he had; 
but I doubt others had warning before his time, and since : 
and he benefited by it as most men do. 

My young Lord Viscount was exceeding sorry when he 
heard that Harry could not come to the cock-match with him, 
and must go to London, but no doubt my Lord consoled him- 
self when the Hampshire cocks won the match ; and he saw 
every one of the battles, and crowed properly over the con- 
quered Sussex gentlemen. 

As Esmond rode towards town, his servant, coming up to 
him, informed him, with a grin, that Mistress Beatrix had 
brought out a new gown and blue stockings for that day’s 
dinner, in which she intended to appear, and had flown into 
a rage and given her maid a slap on the face soon after she 
heard he was going away. Mistress Beatrix’s woman, the 
fellow said, came down to the servants’ hall crying and with 
the mark of a blow still on her cheek ; but Esmond peremp- 
torily ordered him to fall back and be silent, and rode on with 
thoughts enough of his own to occupy him — some sad ones, 
some inexpressibly dear and pleasant. 

His mistress, from whom he had been a year separated, 
was his dearest mistress again. The family from which he 
had been parted, and which he loved with the fondest devo- 
tion, was his family once more. If Beatrix’s beauty shone 
upon him, it was with a friendly lustre, and he could regard 
it with much such a delight as he brought away after seeing 
the beautiful pictures of the smiling Madonnas in the convent 
at Cadiz, when he was despatched thither with a flag ; and as 
for his mistress, ’twas difficult to say with what a feeling he 
regarded her. ’Twas happiness to have seen her ; ’twas no 
great pang to part ; a filial tenderness, a love that was at 
once respect and protection, filled his mind as he thought of 
her ; and near her, or far from her, and from that day until 
now, and from now till death is past, and beyond it, he prays 
that sacred flame may ever burn. 


Henry Esmond 


231 


Chapter XI 

I Make the Campaign of 1704 

Mr Esmond rode up to London then, where, if the Dowager 
had been angry at the abrupt leave of absence he took, she 
was mightily pleased at his speedy return. 

He went immediately and paid his court to his new General, 
General Lumley, who received him graciously, having known 
his father, and also, he was pleased to say, having had the 
very best accounts of Mr Esmond from the officer whose 
aide-de-camp he had been at Vigo. During this winter, Mr 
Esmond was gazetted to a lieutenancy in Brigadier Webb’s 
regiment of Fusileers, then with their colonel in Flanders *, 
but being now attached to the suite of Mr Lumley, Esmond 
did not join his own regiment until more than a year after- 
wards, and after his return from the campaign of Blenheim, 
which was fought the next year. The campaign began very- 
early, our troops marching out of their quarters before the 
winter was almost over, and investing the city of Bonn, on 
the Rhine, under the Duke’s command. His Grace joined 
the army in deep grief of mind, with crape on his sleeve, and 
his household in mourning ; and the very same packet^which 
brought the Commander-in-Chief over, brought letters to the 
forces which preceded him, and one from his dear mistress to 
Esmond, which interested him not a little. 

The young Marquis of Blandford, his Grace’s son, who 
had been entered in King’s College in Cambridge (whither 
my Lord Viscount had also gone, to Trinity, with Mr Tusher 
as his governor), had been seized with smallpox, and was 
dead at sixteen years of age, and so poor Frank’s schemes for 
his sister’s advancement were over, and that innocent childish 
passion nipped in the birth. 

Esmond’s mistress would have had him return, at least her 
letters hinted as much j but in the presence of the enemy this 
was impossible, and our young man took his humble share in 
the siege, which need not be described here, and had the good 
luck to escape without a wound of any sort, and to drink his 


232 


The History of 

General’s health after the surrender. He was in constant 
military duty this year, and did not think of asking for a 
leave of absence, as one or two of his less fortunate friends 
did, who were cast away in that tremendous storm which 
happened towards the close of November, that “ which of 
late o’er pale Britannia past ” (as Mr Addison sang of it), and 
in which scores of our greatest ships and 15,000 of our seamen 
went down. 

They said that our Duke was quite heartbroken by the 
calamity which had befallen his family ; but his enemies found 
that he could subdue them, as well as master his grief. Suc- 
cessful as had been this great General’s operations in the past 
year, they were far enhanced by the splendour of his victory 
in the ensuing campaign. His Grace the Captain-General 
went to England after Bonn, and our army fell back into 
Holland, where, in April 1704, his Grace again found the 
troops, embarking from Harwich and landing at Maesland 
Sluys : thence his Grace came immediately to the Hague, 
where he received the foreign ministers, general officers, and 
other people of quality. The greatest honours were paid to 
his Grace everywhere — at the Hague, Utrecht, Ruremonde, 
and Maestricht ; the civil authorities coming to meet his 
coaches ; salvoes of cannon saluting him, canopies of state 
being erected for him where he stopped, and feasts prepared 
for the numerous gentlemen following in his suite. His Grace 
reviewed the troops of the States-General between Liege and 
Maestricht, and afterwards the English forces, under the com- 
mand of General Churchill, near Bois-le-Duc. Every prepara- 
tion was made for a long march ; and the army heard, with no 
small elation, that it was the Commander-in-Chief’s intention 
to carry the war out of the Low Countries, and to march on 
the Mozelle. Before leaving our camp at Maestricht we heard 
that the French, under the Marshal Villeroy, were also bound 
towards the Mozelle. 

Towards the end of May, the army reached Coblentz ; and 
next day, his Grace, and the generals accompanying him, went 
to visit the Elector of Treves at his Castle of Ehrenbreitstein, 
the horse and dragoons passing the Rhine whilst the Duke 
was entertained at a grand feast by the Elector. All as yet 


^33 


Henry Esmond 

was novelty, festivity, and splendour — a brilliant march of a 
great and glorious army through a friendly country, and sure 
through some of the most beautiful scenes of nature which I 
ever witnessed. 

The foot and artillery, following after the horse as quick as 
possible, crossed the Rhine under Ehrenbreitstein, and so to 
Castel, over against Mayntz, in which city his Grace, his 
generals, and his retinue were received at the landing-place 
by the Elector’s coaches, carried to his Highness’s palace amidst 
the thunder of cannon, and then once more magnificently 
entertained. Gidlingen, in Bavaria, was appointed as the 
general rendezvous of the army, and thither, by different 
routes, the whole forces of English, Dutch, Danes, and 
German auxiliaries took their way. The foot and artillery 
under General Churchill passed the Neckar, at Heidelberg ; 
and Esmond had an opportunity of seeing that city and palace, 
once so famous and beautiful (though shattered and battered 
by the French, under Turenne, in the late war), where his 
grandsire had served the beautiful and unfortunate Electress- 
Palatine, the first King Charles’s sister. 

At Mindelsheim, the famous Prince of Savoy came to visit 
our commandbr, all of us crowding eagerly to get a sight of 
that brilliant and intrepid warrior ; and our troops were drawn 
up in battalia before the Prince, who was pleased to express 
his admiration of this noble English army. At length we 
came in sight of the enemy between Dillingen and Lawingen, 
the Brentz lying between the two armies. The Elector, 
judging that Donauwort would be the point of his Grace’s 
attack, sent a strong detachment of his best troops to Count 
Darcos, who was posted at Schellenberg, near that place, 
where great entrenchments were thrown up, and thousands of 
pioneers employed to strengthen the position. 

On the 2nd of July his Grace stormed the post, with what 
success on our part need scarce be told. His Grace advanced 
with six thousand foot, English and Dutch, thirty squadrons, 
and three regiments of Imperial Cuirassiers, the Duke crossing 
the river at the head of the cavalry. Although our troops 
made the attack with unparalleled courage and fury — rushing 
up to the very guns of the enemy, and being slaughtered 


234 


The History of 


before their works — we were driven back many times, and 
should not have carried them, but that the Imperialists came 
up under the Prince of Baden, when the enemy could make 
no head against us : we pursued him into the trenches, making 
a terrible slaughter there, and into the very Danube, where 
a great part of his troops, following the example of their 
generals. Count Darcos and the Elector himself, tried to save 
themselves by swimming. Our army entered Donauwort, 
which the Bavarians evacuated ; and where ’twas said the Elector 
purposed to have given us a warm reception, by burning us in 
our beds ; the cellars of the houses, when we took possession 
of them, being found stuffed with straw. But though the 
links were there, the link-boys had run away. The townsmen 
saved their houses, and our General took possession of the 
enemy’s ammunition in the arsenals, his stores, and magazines. 
Five days afterwards a great “Te Deum” was sung in Prince 
Lewis’s army, and a solemn day of thanksgiving held in our 
own ; the Prince of Savoy’s compliments coming to his Grace 
the Captain-General during the day’s religious ceremony, and 
concluding, as it were, with an Amen. 

And now, having seen a great military march through a 
friendly country ; the pomps and festivities of more than one 
German court ; the severe struggle of a hotly contested battle, 
and the triumph of victory, Mr Esmond beheld another part 
of military duty : our troops entering the enemy’s territory, 
and putting all around them to fire and sword; burning farms, 
wasted fields, shrieking women, slaughtered sons and fathers, 
and drunken soldiery, cursing and carousing in the midst of 
tears, terror, and murder. Why does the stately Muse of 
History, that delights in describing the valour of heroes and 
the grandeur of conquest, leave out these scenes, so brutal, 
mean, and degrading, that yet form by far the greater part of 
the drama of war? You, gentlemen of England, who live 
at home at ease, and compliment yourselves in the songs of 
triumph with which our chieftains are bepraised — you, pretty 
maidens, that come tumbling down the stairs when the fife 
and drum call you, and huzzah for the British Grenadiers — 
do you take account that these items go to make up the 
amount of the triumph you admire, and form part of the duties 


Henry Esmond 235 

of the heroes you fondle ? Our chief, whom England and all 
Europe, saving only the Frenchmen, worshipped almost, had 
this of the godlike in him, that he was impassible before 
victory, before danger, before defeat. Before the greatest 
obstacle or the most trivial ceremony •, before a hundred 
thousand men drawn in battalia, or a peasant slaughtered at 
the door of his burning hovel j before a carouse of drunken 
German lords, or a monarch’s court, or a cottage table where 
his plans were laid, or an enemy’s battery, vomiting flame 
and death, and strewing corpses round about him ; — he was 
always cold, calm, resolute, like fate. He performed a treason 
or a court-bow, he told a falsehood as black as Styx, as easily 
as he paid a compliment or spoke about the weather. He 
took a mistress, and left her ; he betrayed his benefactor, and 
supported him, or would have murdered him, with the same 
calmness always, and having no more remorse than Clotho 
when she weaves the thread, or Lachesis when she cuts it. 
In the hour of battle I have heard the Prince of Savoy’s officers 
say, the Prince became possessed with a sort of war-like fury , 
his eyes lighted up ; he rushed hither and thither, raging ; he 
shrieked curses and encouragement, yelling and harking his 
bloody war-dogs on, and himself always at the first of the 
hunt. Our Duke was as calm at the mouth of the cannon as 
at the door of a drawing-room. Perhaps he could not have 
been the great man he was, had he had a heart either for love 
or hatred, or pity or fear, or regret or remorse. He achieved 
the highest deed of daring, or deepest calculation of thought, 
as he performed the very meanest action of which a man is 
capable ; told a lie, or cheated a fond woman, or robbed 
a poor beggar of a halfpenny, with a like awful serenity 
and equal capacity of the highest and lowest acts of our 
nature. 

His qualities were pretty well known in the army, where 
there were parties of all politics, and of plenty of shrewdness 
and wit ; but there existed such a perfect confidence in him, 
as the first captain of the world, and such a faith and admiration 
in his prodigious genius and fortune, that the very men whom 
he notoriously cheated of their pay, the chiefs whom he used 
and injured — for he used all men, great and small, that came 


236 The History of 

near him, as his instruments alike, and took something of 
theirs, either some quality or some property — the blood of a 
soldier, it might be, or a jewelled hat, or a hundred thousand 
crowns from a king, or a portion out of a starving sentinel’s 
three-farthings ; or (when he was young) a kiss from a woman, 
and the gold chain off her neck, taking all he could from 
woman or man, and having, as I have said, this of the godlike 
in him, that he could see a hero perish or a sparrow fall, with 
the same amount of sympathy for either. Not that he had no 
tears : he could always order up this reserve at the proper 
moment to battle ; he could draw upon tears or smiles alike, 
and whenever need was for using this cheap coin. He would 
cringe to a shoeblack, as he would flatter a minister or a 
monarch ; be haughty, be humble, threaten, repent, weep, 
grasp your hand (or stab you whenever he saw occasion). — 
But yet those of the army, who knew him best and had 
suffered most from him, admired him most of all : and as he 
rode along the lines to battle or galloped up in the nick of 
time to a battalion reeling from before the enemy’s charge or 
shot, the fainting men and officers got new courage as they 
saw the splendid calm of his face, and felt that his will made 
them irresistible. 

After the great victory of Blenheim the enthusiasm of the 
army for the Duke, even of his bitterest personal enemies in 
it, amounted to a sort of rage — nay, the very officers who 
cursed him in their hearts were among the most frantic to 
cheer him. Who could refuse his meed of admiration to such 
a victory and such a victor ? Not he who writes : a man may 
profess to be ever so much a philosopher ; but he who fought 
on that day must feel a thrill of pride as he recalls it. 

The French right was posted near to the village of Blen- 
heim, on the Danube, where the Marshal Tallard’s quarters 
were ; their line extending through, it may be, a league and 
a half, before Lutzingen and up to a woody hill, round the 
base of which, and acting against the Prince of Savoy, were 
forty of his squadrons. 

Here was a village that the Frenchmen had burned, the 
wood being, in fact, a better shelter and easier of guard than 
any village. 


237 


Henry Esmond 

Before these two villages and the French lines ran a little 
stream, not more than two foot broad, through a marsh (that 
was mostly dried up from the heats of the weather), and this 
stream was the only separation between the two armies — ours 
coming up and ranging themselves in line of battle before the 
French, at six o’clock in the morning-, so that our line was 
quite visible to theirs ; and the whole of this great plain 
was black and swarming with troops for hours before the 
cannonading began. 

On one side and the other this cannonading lasted many 
hours. The French guns being in position in front of their 
line, and doing severe damage among our horse especially, 
and on our right wing of Imperialists under the Prince of 
Savoy, who could neither advance his artillery nor his lines, 
the ground before him being cut up by ditches, morasses, 
and very difficult of passage for the guns. 

It was past mid-day when the attack began on our left, 
where Lord Cutts commanded, the bravest and most beloved 
officer in the English army. And now, as if to make his 
experience in war complete, our young aide-de-camp having 
seen two great armies facing each other in line of battle, and 
had the honour of riding with orders from one end to other 
of the line, came in for a not uncommon accompaniment of 
military glory, and was knocked on the head, along with 
many hundred of brave fellows, almost at the very com- 
mencement of this famous day of Blenheim. A little after 
noon, the disposition for attack being completed with much 
delay and difficulty, and under a severe fire from the enemy’s 
guns, that were better posted and more numerous than ours, 
a body of English and Hessians, with Major-General Wilkes 
commanding at the extreme left of our line, marched upon 
Blenheim, advancing with great gallantry, the Major-General 
on foot, with his officers, at the head of the column, and 
marching, with his hat off, intrepidly in the face of the 
enemy, who was pouring in a tremendous fire from his guns 
and musketry, to which our people were instructed not to 
reply, except with pike and bayonet when they reached the 
French palisades. To these Wilkes walked intrepidly, and 
struck the woodwork with his sword before our people 


238 The History of 

charged it. He was shot down at the instant, with his 
colonel, major, and several officers ; and our troops cheering 
and huzzaing, and coming on, as they did, with immense 
resolution and gallantry, were nevertheless stopped by the 
murderous fire from behind the enemy’s defences, and then 
attacked in flank by a furious charge of French horse which 
swept out of Blenheim, and cut down our men in great 
numbers. Three fierce and desperate assaults of our foot 
were made and repulsed by the enemy ; so that our columns 
of foot were quite shattered, and fell back, scrambling over 
the little rivulet, which we had crossed so resolutely an hour 
before, and pursued by the French cavalry, slaughtering us 
and cutting us down. 

And now the conquerors were met by a furious charge 
of English horse under Esmond’s General, General Lumley, 
behind whose squadrons the flying foot found refuge, and 
formed again, whilst Lumley drove back the French horse, 
charging up to the village of Blenheim and the palisades 
where Wilkes, and many hundred more gallant English- 
men, lay in slaughtered heaps. Beyond this moment, and 
of this famous victory, Mr Esmond knows nothing *, for 
a shot brought down his horse and our young gentleman 
on it, who fell crushed and stunned under the animal, 
and came to his senses he knows not how long after, only 
to lose them again from pain and loss of blood. A dim sense, 
as of people groaning round about him, a wild incoherent 
thought or two for her who occupied so much of his heart 
now, and that here his career, and his hopes, and misfortunes 
were ended, he remembers in the course of these hours. 
When he woke up, it was with a pang of extreme pain, his 
breastplate was taken off, his servant was holding his head up, 
the good and faithful lad of Hampshire* was blubbering over 
his master, whom he found and had thought dead, and a surgeon 
was probing a wound in the shoulder, which he must have got 
at the same moment when his horse was shot and fell over him. 
The battle was over at this end of the field, by this time : the 
village was in possession of the English, its brave defenders 

* My mistress, before I went this campaign, sent me John Lockwood out 
of Walcote, who hath ever since remained with me. — H. E. 





‘I AM WOUNDED’ BOOK-ll- CHAP'IX- 



. ■ 


I 




) 



k 

ll • 


r 




239 


Henry Esmond 

prisoners, or fled, or drowned, many of them, in the neigh- 
bouring waters of Donau. But for honest Lockwood’s faith- 
ful search after his master, there had no doubt been an end of 
Esmond here, and of this his story. The marauders were out 
rifling the bodies as they lay on the field, and Jack had brained 
one of these gentry with the club-end of his musket, who 
had eased Esmond of his hat and periwig, his purse, and fine 
silver-mounted pistols which the Dowager gave him, and 
was fumbling in his pockets for further treasure, when 
Jack Lockwood came up and put an end to the scoundrel’s 
triumph. 

Hospitals for our wounded were established at Blenheim, 
and here for several weeks Esmond lay in very great danger 
of his life ; the wound was not very great from which he 
suffered, and the ball extracted by the surgeon on the spot 
where our young gentleman received it ; but a fever set in 
next day, as he was lying in hospital, and that almost carried 
him away. Jack Lockwood said he talked in the wildest 
manner during his delirium ; that he called himself the Marquis 
of Esmond, and seizing one of the surgeon’s assistants who 
came to dress his wounds, swore that he was Madame Beatrix, 
and that he would make her a duchess if she would but say 
yes. He was passing the days in these crazy fancies, and 
^ana somniay whilst the army was singing ‘‘ Te Deum ” for the 
victory, and those famous festivities were taking place at which 
our Duke, now made a Prince of the Empire, was entertained 
by the King of the Romans and his nobility. His Grace went 
home by Berlin and Hanover, and Esmond lost the festivities 
which took place at those cities, and which his General shared 
in company of the other general officers who travelled with 
our great captain. When he could move, it was by the Duke 
of Wurtemberg’s city of Stuttgard that he made his way home- 
wards, revisiting Heidelberg again, whence he went to Mann- 
heim, and hence had a tedious but easy water journey down 
the river of Rhine, which he had thought a delightful and 
beautiful voyage indeed, but that his heart was longing for 
home, and something far more beautiful and delightful. 

As bright and welcome as the eyes almost of his mistress 
shone the lights of Harwich, as the packet came in from 


240 


The History of 

Holland. It was not many hours ere he, Esmond, was in 
London, of that you may be sure, and received with open 
arms by the old Dowager of Chelsey, who vowed, in her 
jargon of French and English, that he had the air noble, that 
his palor embellished him, that he was an Amadis and deserved 
a Gloriana ; and oh ! flames and darts ! what was his joy at 
hearing that his mistress was come into waiting, and was now 
with Her Majesty at Kensington ! Although Mr Esmond had 
told Jack Lockwood to get horses and they would ride for 
Winchester that night, when he heard this news he counter- 
manded the horses at once ; his business lay no longer in 
Hants ; all his hope and desire lay within a couple of miles of 
him in Kensington Park wall. Poor Harry had never looked 
in the glass before so eagerly to see whether he had the hel 
air, and his paleness really did become him ; he never took 
such pains about the curl of his periwig, and the taste of his 
embroidery and point-lace, as now, before Mr Amadis pre- 
sented himself to Madam Gloriana. Was the fire of the 
French lines half so murderous as the killing glances from 
her Ladyship’s eyes ? Oh ! darts and raptures, how beautiful 
were they ! 

And as, before the blazing sun of morning, the moon fades 
away in the sky almost invisible, Esmond thought, with a blush, 
perhaps, of another sweet pale face, sad and faint, and fading 
out of sight, with its sweet fond gaze of affection ; such a last 
look it seemed to cast as Eurydice might have given, yearning 
after her lover, when fate and Pluto summoned her, and she 
passed away into the shades. 

Chapter X 

An old Story about a Fool and a Woman 

Any taste for pleasure which Esmond had (and he liked to 
desipere in loco, neither more nor less than most young men 
of his age) he could now gratify to the utmost extent, and 
in the best company which the town afforded. When the 
army went into winter quarters abroad, those of the officers 


241 


Henry Esmond 

who had interest or money easily got leave of absence, and 
found it much pleasanter to spend their time in Pall Mall 
and Hyde Park, than to pass the winter away behind the 
fortifications of the dreary old Flanders towns, where the 
English troops were gathered. Yachts and packets passed 
daily between the Dutch and Flemish ports and Harwich ; 
the roads thence to London and the great inns were crowded 
with army gentlemen ; the taverns and ordinaries of the town 
swarmed with red-coats ; and our great Duke’s levees at St 
James’s were as thronged as they had been at Ghent and 
Brussels where we treated him, and he us, with the grandeur 
and ceremony of a sovereign. Though Esmond had been ap- 
pointed to a lieutenancy in the Fusileer regiment, of which 
that celebrated officer. Brigadier John Richmond Webb, was 
colonel, he had never joined the regiment, nor been introduced 
to its excellent commander, though they had made the same 
campaign together, and been engaged in the same battle. But 
being aide-de-camp to General Lumley, who commanded the 
division of horse, and the army marching to its point of des- 
tination on the Danube by different routes, Esmond had not 
fallen in, as yet, with his commander and future comrades of 
the fort; and it was in London, in Golden Square, where 
Major-General Webb lodged, that Captain Esmond had the 
honour of first paying his respects to his friend, patron, and 
commander of after days. 

Those who remember this brilliant and accomplished 
gentleman may recollect his character, upon which he prided 
himself, I think, not a little, of being the handsomest man 
in the army ; a poet who writ a dull copy of verses upon 
the battle of Oudenard three years after, describing Webb, 
says : — 

“ To noble danger Webb conducts the way, 

His great example all his troops obey ; 

Before the front the General sternly rides, 

With such an air as Mars to battle strides : 

Propitious Heaven must sure a hero save, 

Like Paris handsome, and like Hector brave.” 

Mr Webb thought these verses quite as fine as Mr Addison’s 
on the Blenheim Campaign, and, indeed, to be Hector h la 
mode de Paris was part of this gallant gentleman’s ambition. 

Q 


242 The History of 

It would have been difficult to find an officer in the whole 
army, or amongst the splendid courtiers and cavaliers of the 
Maison du Roy, that fought under Vendosme and Villeroy in 
the army opposed to ours, who was a more accomplished 
soldier and perfect gentleman, and either braver or better- 
looking. And if Mr Webb believed of himself what the 
world said of him, and was deeply convinced of his own 
indisputable genius, beauty, and valour, who has a right to 
quarrel with him very much ? This self-content of his kept 
him in general good-humour, of which his friends and depend- 
ants got the benefit. 

He came of a very ancient Wiltshire family, which he re- 
spected above all families in the world : he could prove a lineal 
descent from King Edward the First, and his first ancestor, 
Roaldus de Richmond, rode by William the Conqueror’s side 
on Hastings field. “ We were gentlemen, Esmond,” he used 
to say, “ when the Churchills were horseboys.” He was a 
very tall man, standing in his pumps six feet three inches (in 
his great jack boots, with his tall fair periwig, and hat and 
feather, he could not have been less than eight feet high). “ I 
am taller than Churchill,” he would say, surveying himself in 
the glass, “ and I am a better made man j and if the women 
won’t like a man that hasn’t a wart on his nose, faith, I can’t 
help myself, and Churchill has the better of me there.” In- 
deed, he was always measuring himself with the Duke, and 
always asking his friends to measure them. And talking in 
this frank way, as he would do, over his cups, wags would 
laugh and encourage him ; friends would be sorry for him j 
schemers and flatterers would egg him on, and tale-bearers 
carry the stories to headquarters, and widen the difference 
which already existed there between the great captain and one 
of the ablest and bravest lieutenants he ever had. 

His rancour against the Duke was so apparent, that one saw 
it in the first half-hour’s conversation with General Webb ; 
and his lady, who adored her General, and thought him a 
hundred times taller, handsomer, and braver than a prodigal 
nature had made him, hated the great Duke with such an 
intensity as it becomes faithful wives to feel against their 
husbands’ enemies. Not that my Lord Duke was so yet ; Mr 


H3 


Henry Esmond 

Webb had said a thousand things against him, which his 
superior had pardoned ; and his Grace, whose spies were 
everywhere, had heard a thousand things more than Webb 
had never said. But it cost this great man no pains to pardon ; 
and he passed over an injury or a benefit alike easily. 

Should any child of mine take the pains to read these his 
ancestor’s memoirs, I would not have him judge of the great 
Duke * by what a contemporary has written of him. No man 
hath been so immensely lauded and decried as this great 
statesman and warrior ; as, indeed, no man ever deserved 
better the very greatest praise and the strongest censure. If 
i the present writer joins with the latter faction, very likely a 
I private pique of his own may be the cause of his ill-feeling. 

On presenting himself at the Commander-in-Chief’s levee, 

! his Grace had not the least remembrance of General Lumley’s 
aide-de-camp, and though he knew Esmond’s family perfectly 
well, having served with both lords (my Lord Francis and the 
Viscount Esmond’s father) in Flanders, and in the Duke of 
York’s Guard, the Duke of Marlborough, who was friendly 
, and serviceable to the (so-styled) legitimate representatives of 
the Viscount Castlewood, took no sort of notice of the poor 
i lieutenant who bore their name. A word of kindness or 
I acknowledgment, or a single glance of approbation, might 
have changed Esmond’s opinion of the great man ; and instead 
of a satire, which his pen cannot help writing, who knows but 
that the humble historian might have taken the other side of 
panegyric ? We have but to change the point of view, and 
the greatest action looks mean : as we turn the perspective- 
glass, and a giant appears a pigmy. You may describe, but 
‘ who can tell whether your sight is clear or not, or your means 
i of information accurate ? Had the great man said but a word 
I of kindness to the small one (as he would have stepped out of 
; his gilt chariot to shake hands with Lazarus in rags and sores, 
j if he thought Lazarus could have been of any service to him), 

I no doubt Esmond would have fought for him with pen and 
I sword to the utmost of his might ; but my lord the lion did 
i 

j * This passage in the Memoirs of Esmond is written on a leaf inserted into 
! the MS. book, and dated 1744, probably after he had heard of the Duchess’s 
death. 


244 History of 

not want master mouse at this moment, and so Muscipulus 
went off and nibbled in opposition. 

So it was, however, that a young gentleman, who, in the 
eyes of his family, and in his own, doubtless, was looked upon 
as a consummate hero, found that the great hero of the day 
took no more notice of him than of the smallest drummer in 
his Grace’s army. The Dowager at Chelsey was furious 
against this neglect of her family, and had a great battle with 
Lady Marlborough (as Lady Castlewood insisted on calling the 
Duchess). Her Grace was now Mistress of the Robes to Her 
Majesty, and one of the greatest personages in this kingdom, 
as her husband was in all Europe, and the battle between the 
two ladies took place in the Queen’s drawing-room. 

The Duchess, in reply to my aunt’s eager clamour, said 
haughtily, that she had done her best for the legitimate branch 
of the Esmonds, and could not be expected to provide for the 
bastard brats of the family. 

“ Bastards ! ” says the Viscountess, in a fury. “ There are 
bastards among the Churchills, as your Grace knows, and the 
Duke of Berwick is provided for well enough.” 

“ Madam,” says the Duchess, “ you know whose fault it is 
that there are no such dukes in the Esmond family too, and 
how that little scheme of a certain lady miscarried.” 

Esmond’s friend, Dick Steele, who was in waiting on the 
Prince, heard the controversy between the ladies at Court. 
“ And faith,” says Dick, “ I think, Harry, thy kinswoman 
had the worst of it.” 

He could not keep the story quiet ; ’twas all over the coffee- 
houses ere night : it was printed in a news-letter before a 
month was over, and ‘‘ The Reply of Her Grace the Duchess of 
M-rl-b-r-gh to a Popish Lady of the Court, once a favourite of 
the late K — J-m-s,” was printed in half-a-dozen places, with 
a note stating that “ this Duchess, when the head of this lady’s 
family came by his death lately in a fatal duel, never rested 
until she got a pension for the orphan heir, and widow, from 
Her Majesty’s bounty.” The squabble did not advance poor 
Esmond’s promotion much, and indeed made him so ashamed 
of himself that he dared not show his face at the Commander- 
in-Chief’s levees again. 


245 


Henry Esmond 

During those eighteen months which had passed since 
Esmond saw his dear mistress, her good father, the old 
Dean, quitted this life, firm in his principles to the very last, 
and enjoining his family always to remember that the Queen’s 
brother. King James the Third, was their rightful sovereign. 
He made a very edifying end, as his daughter told Esmond, 
and not a little to her surprise, after his death (for he had lived 
always very poorly) my Lady found that her father had left 
no less a sum than ^3000 behind him, which he bequeathed 
to her. 

With this little fortune Lady Castlewood was enabled, 
when her daughter’s turn at Court came, to come to London, 
where she took a small genteel house at Kensington, in the 
neighbourhood of the Court, bringing her children with her, 
and here it was that Esmond found his friends. 

As for the young lord, his University career had ended 
I rather abruptly. Honest Tusher, his governor, had found 
my young gentleman quite ungovernable. My Lord worried 
his life away with tricks ; and broke out, as home-bred lads 
will, into a hundred youthful extravagances, so that Doctor 
Bentley, the new Master of Trinity, thought fit to write to 
the Viscountess Castlewood, my Lord’s mother, and beg her 
to remove the young nobleman from a College where he 
declined to learn, and where he only did harm by his riotous 
example. Indeed, I believe he nearly set fire to Nevil’s Court, 
that beautiful new quadrangle ■ of our College, which Sir 
Christopher Wren had lately built. He knocked down a 
proctor’s man that wanted to arrest him in a midnight prank ; 
he gave a dinner-party on the Prince of Wales’s birthday, 
which was within a fortnight of his own, and the twenty 
i young gentlemen then present sallied out after their wine, 
having toasted King James’s health with open windows, and 
sung cavalier songs, and shouted “ God save the King ! ” in 
5 the great court, so that the Master came out of his lodge at 
I midnight, and dissipated the riotous assembly, 
j This was my Lord’s crowning freak, and the Rev. Thomas 
Tusher, domestic chaplain to the Right Honourable the 
Lord Viscount Castlewood, finding his prayers and sermons 
of no earthly avail to his Lordship, gave up his duties of 


246 The History of 

governor ; went and married his brewer’s widow at South- 
ampton, and took her and her money to his parsonage house 
at Castlewood. 

My Lady could not be angry with her son for drinking 
King James’s health, being herself a loyal Tory, as all the 
Castlewood family were, and acquiesced with a sigh, know- 
ing, perhaps, that her refusal would be of no avail to the 
young lord’s desire for a military life. She would have liked 
him to be in Mr Esmond’s regiment, hoping that Harry might 
act as a guardian and adviser to his wayward young kinsman ; 
but my young lord would hear of nothing but the Guards, 
and a commission was got for him in the Duke of Ormond’s 
regiment ; so Esmond found my Lord ensign and lieutenant 
when he returned from Germany after the Blenheim campaign. 

The effect produced by both Lady Castlewood’s children 
when they appeared in public was extraordinary, and the whole 
town speedily rang with their fame : such a beautiful couple, 
it was declared, never had been seen ; the young maid of 
honour was toasted at every table and tavern, and as for my 
young lord, his good looks were even more admired than his 
vsister’s. A hundred songs were written about the pair, and 
as the fashion of that day was, my young lord was praised in 
these Anacreontics as warmly as Bathyilus. You may be sure 
that he accepted very complacently the town’s opinion of him, 
and acquiesced with that frankness and charming good-humour 
he always showed in the idea 'that he was the prettiest fellow 
in all London. 

The old Dowager at Chelsey, though she could never be 
got to acknowledge that Mistress Beatrix was any beauty at 
all (in which opinion, as it may be imagined, a vast number 
of the ladies agreed with her), yet, on the very first sight 
of young Castlewood, she owned she fell in love with 
him ; and Henry Esmond, on his return to Chelsey, found 
himself quite superseded in her favour by her younger kins- 
man. The feat of drinking the King’s health at Cambridge 
would have won her heart, she said, if nothing else did. 
“How had the dear young fellow got such beauty?” she 
asked. “ Not from his father — certainly not from his mother. 
How had he come by such noble manners, and the perfect 


Henry Esmond 247 

hel air^ That countrified Walcote widow could never have 
taught him.” Esmond had his own opinion about the coun- 
trified Walcote widow, who had a quiet grace and serene kind- 
ness, that had always seemed to him the perfection of good 
breeding, though he did not try to argue this point with his 
aunt. But he could agree in most of the praises which the 
enraptured old Dowager bestowed on my Lord Viscount, 
than whom he never beheld a more fascinating and charming 
gentleman. Castlewood had not wit so much as enjoyment. 

The lad looks good things,” Mr Steele used to say ; ‘‘ and 
his laugh lights up a conversation as much as ten repartees 
from Mr Congreve. I would as soon sit over a bottle with 
him as with Mr Addison ; and rather listen to his talk than 
hear Nicolini. Was ever man so gracefully drunk as my Lord 
Castlewood } I would give anything to carry my wine ” 
(though, indeed, Dick bore his very kindly, and plenty of it, 
too) ‘‘ like this incomparable young man. When he is sober 
he is delightful ; and when tipsy, perfectly irresistible.” And 
referring to his favourite, Shakespeare (who was quite out of 
fashion until Steele brought him back into the mode), Dick 
compared Lord Castlewood to Prince Hal, and was pleased to 
dub Esmond as Ancient Pistol. 

The Mistress of the Robes, the greatest lady in England 
after the Queen, or even before Her Majesty, as the world 
said, though she never could be got to say a civil word to 
Beatrix, whom she had promoted to her place as maid of 
honour, took her brother into instant favour. When young 
Castlewood, in his new uniform, and looking like a prince out 
of a fairy tale, went to pay his duty to her Grace, she looked 
at him for a minute in silence, the young man blushing and in 
confusion before her, then fairly burst out a-crying, and kissed 
him before her daughters and company. “ He was my boy’s 
friend,” she said, through her sobs. ‘‘ My Blandford might 
have been like him.” And everybody saw, after this mark of 
the Duchess’s favour, that my young Lord’s promotion was 
secure, and people crowded round the favourite’s favourite, 
who became vainer and gayer, and more good-humoured than 
ever. 

Meanwhile Madame Beatrix was making her conquests on 


248 The History of 

her own side, and amongst them was one poor gentleman, who 
had been shot by her young eyes two years before, and had 
never been quite cured of that wound ; he knew, to be sure, 
how hopeless any passion might Nbe, directed in that quarter, 
and had taken that best, though ignoble, remedium amoris, a 
speedy retreat from before the charmer, and a long absence 
from her ; and not being dangerously smitten in the first 
instance, Esmond pretty soon got the better of his complaint, 
and if he had it still, did not know he had it, and bore it 
easily. But when he returned after Blenheim, the young lady 
of sixteen, who had appeared the most beautiful object his 
eyes had ever looked on two years back, was now advanced to 
a perfect ripeness and perfection of beauty, such as instantly 
enthralled the poor devil, who had already been a fugitive 
from her charms. Then he had seen her but for two days, 
and fled ; now he beheld her day after day, and when she was 
at Court watched after her ; when she was at home, made one 
of the family party ; when she went abroad, rode after her 
mother’s chariot ; when she appeared in public places, was in 
the box near her, or in the pit looking at her ; when she went 
to church was sure to be there, though he might not listen to 
the sermon, and be ready to hand her to her chair if she 
deigned to accept of his services, and select him from a score 
of young men who were always hanging round about her. 
When she went away, accompanying Her Majesty to Hampton 
Court, a darkness fell over London. Gods, what nights has 
Esmond passed, thinking of her, rhyming about her, talking 
about her. His friend Dick Steele was at this time courting 
the young lady, Mrs Scurlock, whom he married ; she had 
a lodging in Kensington Square, hard by my Lady Castle- 
wood’s house there. Dick and Harry, being on the same 
errand, used to meet constantly at Kensington. They were 
always prowling about that place, or dismally walking thence, 
or eagerly running thither. They emptied scores of bottles at 
the “ King’s Arms,” each man prating of his love, and allowing 
the other to talk on condition that he might have his own turn 
as a listener. Hence arose an intimacy between them, though 
to all the rest of their friends they must have been insuffer- 
able, Esmond’s verses to “ Gloriana at the Harpsichord,” to 


Henry Esmond 249 

' ‘‘ Gloriana’s Nosegay,” to ‘‘ Gloriana at Court,” appeared this 
, year in the Observator, — Have you never read them ? They 
. were thought pretty poems, and attributed by some to Mr 
Prior. 

j This passion did not escape — how should it ? — the clear 
i eyes of Esmond’s mistress : he told her all ; what will a man 
! not do when frantic with love ? To what baseness will he not 
I demean himself ? What pangs will he not make others suffer, 
SO that he may ease his selfish heart of a part of its own pain ? 
I Day after day he would seek his dear mistress, pour insane 
f hopes, supplications, rhapsodies, raptures, into her ear. She 
listened, smiled, consoled, with untiring pity and sweetness. 
Esmond was the eldest of her children, so she was pleased to 
say ; and as for her kindness, who ever had or would look for 
aught else from one who was an angel of goodness and pity ? 
After what has been said, ’tis needless almost to add that poor 
Esmond’s suit was unsuccessful. What was a nameless, 
penniless lieutenant to do, when some of the greatest in the 
land were in the field ? Esmond never so much as thought 
L of asking permission to hope so far above his reach as he knew 
, this prize was — and passed his foolish, useless life in mere 
i abject sighs and impotent longing. What nights of rage, 
i what days of torment, of passionate unfulfilled desire, of 
I sickening jealousy can he recall! Beatrix thought no more 
j of him than of the lacquey that followed her chair. His 
■ complaints did not touch her in the least ; his raptures rather 
fatigued her; she cared for his verses no more than for Dan 
Chaucer’s, who’s dead these ever so many hundred years ; she 
did not hate him ; she rather despised him, and just suffered 
him. 

One day, after talking to Beatrix’s mother, his dear, fond, 
constant mistress — for hours — for all day long — pouring out 
his flame and his passion, his despair and rage, returning again 
and again to the theme, pacing the room, tearing up the 
flowers on the table, twisting and breaking into bits the wax 
out of the stand-dish, and performing a hundred mad freaks 
of passionate folly ; seeing his mistress at last quite pale and 
tired out with sheer weariness of compassion, and watching 
over his fever for the hundredth time, Esmond seized up his 


250 


The History of 

hat and took his leave. As he got into Kensington Square, a 
sense of remorse came over him for the wearisome pain he had 
been inflicting upon the dearest and kindest friend ever man 
had. He went back to the house, where the servant still 
stood at the open door, ran up the stairs, and found his 
mistress where he had left her in the embrasure of the 
window, looking over the fields towards Chelsey. She 
laughed, wiping away at the same time the tears which were 
in her kind eyes ; he flung himself down on his knees, and 
buried his head in her lap. She had in her hand the stalk of 
one of the flowers, a pink, that he had torn to pieces. ‘‘ Oh, 
pardon me, pardon me, my dearest and kindest,” he said ; 
“ I am in hell, and you are the angel that brings me a drop of 
water.” 

“I am your mother, you are my son, and I love you 
always,” she said, holding her hands over him : and he went 
away comforted and humbled in mind, as he thought of that 
amazing and constant love and tenderness with which this 
sweet lady ever blessed and pursued him. 


Chapter XI 

The Famous Mr Joseph Addison 

The gentlemen-ushers had a table at Kensington and the 
Guard a very splendid dinner daily at St James’s, at either of 
which ordinaries Esmond was free to dine. Dick Steele liked 
the Guard table better than his own at the gentlemen-ushers’, 
where there was less wine and more ceremony ; and Esmond 
had many a jolly afternoon in company of his friend, and a 
hundred times at least saw Dick into his chair. If there is 
verity in wine, according to the old adage, what an amiable- 
natured character Dick’s must have been ! In proportion as 
he took in wine he overflowed with kindness. His talk was 
not witty so much as charming. He never said a word that 
could anger anybody, and only became the more benevolent 
the more tipsy he grew. Many of the wags derided the poor 
fellow in his cups, and chose him as a butt for their satire ; 


251 


Henry Esmond 

but there was a kindness about him, and a sweet playful fancy, 
that seemed to Esmond far more charming than the pointed 
talk of the brightest wits with their elaborate repartees and 
affected severities. I think Steele shone rather than sparkled. 
Those famous beaux-esprits of the coffee-houses (Mr William 
Congreve, for instance, when his gout and his grandeur per- 
mitted him to come among us) would make many brilliant hits 
— half-a-dozen in a night sometimes — but, like sharpshooters, 
when they had fired their shot, they were obliged to retire 
under cover till their pieces were loaded again, and wait till 
they got another chance at their enemy ; whereas Dick never 
thought that his bottle companion was a butt to aim at — only 
a friend to shake by the hand. The poor fellow had half the 
town in his confidence ; everybody knew everything about 
his loves and his debts, his creditors or his mistress’ obduracy. 
When Esmond first came on to the town, honest Dick was all 
flames and raptures for a young lady, a West India fortune, 
whom he married. In a couple of years the lady was dead, 
the fortune was all but spent, and the honest widower was as 
eager in pursuit of a new paragon of beauty as if he had never 
courted and married and buried the last one. 

Quitting the Guard table one Sunday afternoon, when by 
chance Dick had a sober fit upon him, he and his friend were 
making their way down Germain Street, and Dick all of a 
sudden left his companion’s arm, and ran after a gentleman who 
was poring over a folio volume at the book-shop near to St 
James’s Church. He was a fair, tall man, in a snuff-coloured 
suit, with a plain sword, very sober, and almost shabby in 
appearance — at least when compared to Captain Steele, who 
loved to adorn his jolly round person with the finest of clothes, 
and shone in scarlet and gold lace. The Captain rushed up, 
then, to the student of the book-stall, took him in his arms, 
hugged him, and would have kissed him — for Dick was always 
hugging and bussing his friends — but the other stepped tback 
with a flush on his pale face, seeming to decline this public 
manifestation of Steele’s regard. 

“ My dearest Joe, where hast thou hidden thyself this 
age } ” cries the Captain, still holding both his friend’s hands ; 
“ I have been languishing for thee this fortnight.” 


252 The History of 

A fortnight is not an age, Dick,” says the other, very 
good-humouredly. (He had light-blue eyes, extraordinary 
bright, and a face perfectly regular and handsome, like a 
tinted statue.) And I have been hiding myself — where 
do you think ? ” 

“ What ! not across the water, my dear Joe ” says 
Steele, with a look of great alarm : ‘‘ thou knowest I have 
always ” 

“ No,” says his friend, interrupting him with a smile : ‘‘ we 
are not come to such straits as that, Dick. I have been hiding, 
sir, at a place where people never think of finding you — at my 
own lodgings, whither I am going to smoke a pipe now and 
drink a glass of sack ; will your honour come ? ” 

** Harry Esmond, come hither,” cries out Dick. “ Thou 
hast heard me talk over and over again of my dearest Joe, 
my guardian angel ? ” 

“ Indeed,” says Mr Esmond, with a bow, “it is not from 
you only that I have learned to admire Mr Addison. We 
loved good poetry at Cambridge as well as at Oxford ; and I 
have some of yours by heart, though I have put on a red coat. 
. . . ‘ O qui canoro blandius Orpheo vocale duels carmen ; ’ 
shall I go on, sir ? ” says Mr Esmond, who, indeed, had read 
and loved the charming Latin poems of Mr Addison, as every 
scholar of that time knew and admired them. 

“ This is Captain Esmond, who was at Blenheim,” says 
Steele. 

“ Lieutenant Esmond,” says the other, with a low bow, “ at 
Mr Addison’s service.” 

“ I have heard of you,” says Mr Addison, with a smile j as, 
indeed, everybody about town had heard that unlucky story 
about Esmond’s dowager aunt and the Duchess. 

“We were going to the ‘ George ’ to take a bottle before 
the play,” says Steele ; “ wilt thou be one, Joe ? ” 

Mr Addison said his own lodgings were hard by, where he 
was still rich enough to give a good bottle of wine to his 
friends ; and invited the two gentlemen to his apartment in 
the Haymarket, whither we accordingly went. 

“ I shall get credit with my landlady,” says he, with a smile, 
“ when she sees two such fine gentlemen as you come up my 


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253 


Henry Esmond 


stair.” And he politely made his visitors welcome to his 
apartment, which was indeed but a shabby one, though no 
grandee of the land could receive his guests with a more 
perfect and courtly grace than this gentleman. A frugal 
dinner, consisting of a slice of meat and a penny loaf, was 
awaiting the owner of the lodgings. My wine is better 
than my meat,” says Mr Addison ; “ my Lord Halifax sent 
me the Burgundy.” And he set a bottle and glasses before 
his friends, and ate his simple dinner in a very few minutes, 
after which the three fell to and began to drink. ‘‘ You see,” 
says Mr Addison, pointing to his writing-table, whereon was 
a map of the action at Hochstedt, and several other gazettes 
and pamphlets relating to the battle, that I, too, am busy 
about your affairs. Captain. I am engaged as a poetical 
gazetteer, to say truth, and am writing a poem on the 
campaign.” 

So Esmond, at the request of his host, told him what he 
knew about the famous battle, drew the river on the table 
aliquo mero, and with the aid of some bits of tobacco-pipe 
showed the advance of the left wing, where he had been 
engaged. 

A sheet or two of the verses lay already on the table beside 
our bottles and glasses, and Dick having plentifully refreshed 
himself from the latter, took up the pages of manuscript, writ 
out with scarce a blot or correction, in the author’s slim, neat 
handwriting, and began to read therefrom with great emphasis 
and volubility. At pauses of the verse, the enthusiastic reader 
stopped and fired off a great salvo of applause. 

Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm of Addison’s friend. 
“You are like the German Burghers,” says he, “and the 
Princes on the Mozelle : when our army came to a halt, they 
always sent a deputation to compliment the chief, and fired a 
salute with all their artillery from their walls.” 

“ And drunk the great chief’s health afterward, did not 
they ? ” says Captain Steele, gaily filling up a bumper ; — he 
never was tardy at that sort of acknowledgment of a friend’s 
merit. 

“ And the Duke, since you will have me act his Grace’s 
part,” says Mr Addison, with a smile, and something of a 


254 


The History of 

blush, “pledged his friends in return. Most Serene Elector 
of Co vent Garden, I drink to your Highness’s health,” and he 
filled himself a glass. Joseph required scarce more pressing 
than Dick to that sort of amusement ; but the wine never 
seemed at all to fluster Mr Addison’s brains ; it only unloosed 
his tongue : whereas Captain Steele’s head and speech were 
quite overcome by a single bottle. 

No matter what the verses were, and, to say truth, Mr 
Esmond found some of them more than indifferent, Dick’s 
enthusiasm for his chief never faltered, and in every line from 
Addison’s pen Steele found a master-stroke. By the time 
Dick had come to that part of the poem wherein the bard 
describes as blandly as though he were recording a dance at 
the opera, or a harmless bout of bucolic cudgelling at a 
village fair, that bloody and ruthless part of our campaign, 
with the remembrance whereof every soldier who bore a part 
in it must sicken with shame — when we were ordered to 
ravage and lay waste the Elector’s country ; and with fire and 
murder, slaughter and crime, a great part of his dominions 
was overrun ; — when Dick came to the lines — 

“ In vengeance roused the soldier fills his hand 
With sword and fire, and ravages the land, 

In crackling flames a thousand harvests burn, 

A thousand villages to ashes turn. 

To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat. 

And mixed with bellowing herds confusedly bleat. 

Their trembling lords the common shade partake. 

And cries of infants sound in every brake. 

The listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands. 

Loth to obey his leader’s just commands. 

The leader grieves, by generous pity swayed. 

To see his just commands so well obeyed ; ” — 

by this time wine and friendship had brought poor Dick to a 
perfectly maudlin state, and he hiccupped out the last line 
with a tenderness that set one of his auditors a-laughing. 

“ I admire the license of your poets,” said Esmond to Mr 
Addison. (Dick, after reading of the verses, was fain to go 
off, insisting on kissing his two dear friends before his 
departure, and reeling away with his periwig over his eyes.) 
“ I admire your art : the murder of the campaign is done to 
military music, like a battle at the opera, and the virgins 


255 


Henry Esmond 

shriek in harmony as our victorious grenadiers march into 
their villages. Do you know what a scene it was ? ” — (by 
this time, perhaps, the wine had warmed Mr Esmond’s head 
too) — “ what a triumph you are celebrating ? what scenes of 
shame and horror were enacted, over which the commander’s 
genius presided, as calm as though he didn’t belong to our 
sphere ? You talk of the ‘ listening soldier fixed in sorrow,’ 
the ‘ leader’s grief swayed by generous pity : ’ to my belief 
the leader cared no more for bleating flocks than he did for 
infants’ cries, and many of our ruffians butchered one or the 
other with equal alacrity. I was ashamed of my trade when 
I saw those horrors perpetrated which came under every 
man’s eyes. You hew out of your polished verses a stately 
image of smiling victory ! I tell you ’tis an uncouth, dis- 
torted, savage idol; hideous, bloody, and barbarous. The 
rites performed before it are shocking to think of. You 
great poets should show it as it is — ugly and horrible, not 
beautiful and serene. Oh, sir, had you made the campaign, 
believe me, you never would have sung it so.” 

During this little outbreak, Mr Addison was listening, 
smoking out of his long pipe, and smiling very placidly. 
“ What would you have ? ” says he. “ In our polished days, 
and according to the rules of art, ’tis impossible that the 
Muse should depict tortures or begrime her hands with the 
horrors of war. These are indicated rather than described ; 
as in the Greek tragedies, that, I dare say, you have read 
(and sure there can be no more elegant specimens of composi- 
tion), Agamemnon is slain, or Medea’s children destroyed, 
away from the scene ; — the chorus occupying the stage and 
singing of the action to pathetic music. Something of this 
I attempt, my dear sir, in my humble way : ’tis a pane- 
gyric I mean to write, and not a satire. Were I to sing 
as you would have me, the town would tear the poet in 
pieces, and burn his book by the hands of the common 
hangman. Do you not use tobacco ? Of all the weeds grown 
on earth, sure the nicotian is the most soothing and salutary. 
We must paint our great Duke,” Mr Addison went on, 
‘‘ not as a man, which no doubt he is, with weaknesses like 
the rest of us, but as a hero. ’Tis in a triumph, not a battle. 


256 The History of 

that your humble servant is riding his sleek Pegasus. We 
College poets trot, you know, on very easy nags j it hath been, 
time out of mind, part of the poet’s profession to celebrate the 
actions of heroes in verse, and to sing the deeds which you 
men of war perform. I must follow the rules of my art, and 
the composition of such a strain as this must be harmonious 
and majestic, not familiar, or too near the vulgar truth. Si 
parva licet : if Virgil could invoke the divine Augustus, a 
humbler poet from the banks of the Isis may celebrate a 
victory and a conqueror of our own nation, in whose triumphs 
every Briton has a share, and whose glory and genius contri- 
butes to every citizen’s individual honour. When hath there 
been, since our Henrys’ and Edwards’ days, such a great feat 
of arms as that from which you yourself have brought away 
marks of distinction ? If ’tis in my power to sing that song 
worthily, I will do so, and be thankful to my Muse. If I fail 
as a poet, as a Briton at least I will show my loyalty, and fling 
up my cap and huzzah for the conqueror : 

. Rheni pacator et Istri, 

Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit 
Ordinibus : laetatur eques, plauditque senator, 

Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori.’” 

“ There were as brave men on that field,” says Mr Esmond 
(who never could be made to love the Duke of Marlborough, 
nor to forget those stories which he used to hear in his youth 
regarding that great chief’s selfishness and treachery) — “There 
were men at Blenheim as good as the leader, whom neither 
knights nor senators applauded, nor voices plebeian or patri- 
cian favoured, and who lie there forgotten, under the clods. 
What poet is there to sing them ? ” 

“ To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades ! ” says 
Mr Addison with a smile. “Would you celebrate them all? 
If I may venture to question anything in such an admirable 
work, the catalogue of the ships in Homer hath always 
appeared to me as somewhat wearisome : what had the poem 
been, supposing the writer had chronicled the names of 
captains, lieutenants, rank and file ? One of the greatest of 
a great man’s qualities is success ; ’tis the result of all the 
others ; ’tis a latent power in him which compels the favour of 


Henry Esmond 257 

the gods, and subjugates fortune. Of all his gifts I admire 
that one in the great Marlborough. To be brave ? every 
man is brave. But in being victorious, as he is, I fancy there 
is something divine. In presence of the occasion, the great 
soul of the leader shines out, and the god is confessed. 
Death itself respects him, and passes by him to lay others 
low. War and carnage flee before him to ravage other parts of 
the field, as Hector from before the divine Achilles. You say 
he hath no pity : no more have the gods, who are above it, 
and super-human. The fainting battle gathers strength at his 
aspect ; and, wherever he rides, victory charges with him.” 

A couple of days after, when Mr Esmond revisited his 
I poetic friend, he found this thought, struck out in the fervour 
of conversation, improved and shaped into those famous lines, 
which are in truth the noblest in the poem of the “ Cam- 
paign.” As the two gentlemen sat engaged in talk, Mr 
Addison solacing himself with his customary pipe, the little 
maid-servant that waited on his lodging came up, preceding 
a gentleman in fine laced clothes, that had evidently been 
figuring at Court or a great man’s levee. The courtier 
coughed a little at the smoke of the pipe, and looked round 
I the room curiously, which was shabby enough, as was the 
i owner in his worn snuff-coloured suit and plain tie-wig. 

“ How goes on the magnum opus, Mr Addison ?” says the 
i Court gentleman, on looking down at the papers that were on 
1 the table. 

1 ‘‘We were but now over it,” says Addison (the greatest 
I courtier in the land could not have a more splendid politeness, 
i or greater dignity of manner). “ Here is the plan,” says he, 

I “on the table : hac ibat Simois, here ran the little river 
I Nebel : hie est Sigeia tellus, here are Tallard’s quarters, at 
I the bowl of this pipe, at the attack of which Captain Esmond 
I was present. I have the honour to introduce him to Mr 
' Boyle ; and Mr Esmond was but now depicting aliquo proelia 
mixta mero, when you came in.” In truth, the two gentle- 
men had been so engaged when the visitor arrived, and 
Addison in his smiling way speaking of Mr Webb, colonel 
of Esmond’s regiment (who commanded a brigade in the 
action, and greatly distinguished himself there), was lamenting 


2^S The History of 

that he could find never a suitable rhyme for Webb, otherwise 
the brigade should have had a place in the poet’s verses. 
“ And for you, you are but a lieutenant,” says Addison, ‘‘ and 
the Muse can’t occupy herself with any gentleman under the 
rank of a field officer.” 

Mr Boyle was all impatient to hear, saying that my Lord 
Treasurer and my Lord Halifax were equally anxious ; and 
Addison, blushing, began reading of his verses, and, I suspect, 
knew their weak parts as well as the most critical hearer. 
When he came to the lines describing the angel that 

“Inspired repulsed battalions to engage, 

And taught the doubtful battle where to rage,” 

he read with great animation, looking at Esmond, as much as 
to say, “ You know where that simile came from — from our 
talk, and our bottle of Burgundy, the other day.” 

The poet’s two hearers were caught with enthusiasm, and 
applauded the verses with all their might. The gentleman of 
the Court sprang up in great delight. “Not a word more, my 
dear sir,” says he. “Trust me with the papers — I’ll defend 
them with my life. Let me read them over to my Lord Trea- 
surer, whom I am appointed to see in half-an-hour. I venture 
to promise, the verses shall lose nothing by my reading, and 
then, sir, we shall see whether Lord Halifax has a right to 
complain that his friend’s pension is no longer paid.” And 
without more ado, the courtier in lace seized the manuscript 
pages, placed them in his breast with his ruffled hand over his 
heart, executed a most gracious wave of the hat with the dis- 
engaged hand, and smiled and bowed out of the room, leaving 
an odour of pomander behind him. 

“ Does not the chamber look quite dark ? ” says Addison, 
surveying it, “ after the glorious appearance and disappearance 
of that gracious messenger ? Why, he illuminated the whole 
room. Your scarlet, Mr Esmond, will bear any light; but 
this threadbare old coat of mine, how very worn it looked 
under the glare of that splendour ! I wonder whether they 
will do anything for me,” he continued. “ When I came out 
of Oxford into the world, my patrons promised me great things ; 
and you see where their promises have landed me, in a lodging 


259 


Henry Esmond 

up two pair of stairs, with a sixpenny dinner from the cook’s 
shop. Well, I suppose this promise will go after the others, 
and fortune will jilt me, as the jade has been doing any time 
these seven years. ‘ I puff* the prostitute away,’ ” says he, 
smiling, and blowing a cloud out of his pipe. “ There is no 
hardship in poverty, Esmond, that is not bearable ; no hardship 
even in honest dependence that an honest man may not put up 
with. I came out of the lap of Alma Mater, puffed up with 
her praises of me, and thinking to make a figure in the world 
with the parts and learning which had got me no small name 
in our College. The world is the ocean, and Isis and Charwell 
are but little drops, of which the sea takes no account. My 
reputation ended a mile beyond Maudlin Tower ; no one took 
note of me ; and I learned this at least, to bear up against evil 
fortune with a cheerful heart. Friend Dick hath made a figure 
in the world, and has passed me in the race long ago. What 
matters a little name or a little fortune ? There is no fortune 
that a philosopher cannot endure. I have been not unknown 
as a scholar, and yet forced to live by turning bear-leader, 
and teaching a boy to spell. What then ? The life was not 
pleasant, but possible — the bear was bearable. Should this 
venture fail, I will go back to Oxford : and some day, when 
you are a general, you shall find me a curate in a cassock and 
bands, and I shall welcome your honour to my cottage in the 
country, and to a mug of penny ale. ’Tis not poverty that’s 
the hardest to bear, or the least happy lot in life,” says Mr 
Addison, shaking the ash out of his pipe. ‘‘ See, my pipe is 
smoked out. Shall we have another bottle ? I have still a 
couple in the cupboard, and of the right sort. No more ? Let 
us go abroad and take a turn on the Mall, or look in at the 
theatre and see Dick’s comedy. ’Tis not a masterpiece of 
wit ; but Dick is a good fellow, though he doth not set the 
Thames on fire.” 

Within a month after this day, Mr Addison’s ticket had 
come up a prodigious prize in the lottery of life. All the 
town was in an uproar of admiration of his poem, the “ Cam- 
paign,” which Dick Steele was spouting at every coffee-house 
in Whitehall and Covent Garden. The wits on the other side 
of Temple Bar saluted him at once as the greatest poet the 


26 o 


The History of 

world had seen for ages : the people huzzahed for Marlborough 
and for Addison, and, more than this, the party in power 
provided for the meritorious poet, and Mr Addison got the 
appointment of Commissioner of Excise, which the famous 
Mr Locke vacated, and rose from this place to other 
dignities and honours ; his prosperity from henceforth to 
the end of his life being scarce ever interrupted. But I 
doubt whether he was not happier in his garret in the 
Haymarket, than ever he was in his splendid palace at 
Kensington ; and I believe the fortune that came to him 
in the shape of the countess his wife, was no better than a 
shrew and a vixen. 

Gay as the town was, ’twas but a dreary place for Mr 
Esmond, whether his charmer was in or out of it, and he 
was glad when his General gave him notice that he was going 
back to his division of the army, which lay in winter quarters 
at Bois-le-Duc. His dear mistress bade him farewell with a 
cheerful face ; her blessing he knew he had always, and where- 
soever fate carried him. Mistress Beatrix was away in attend- 
ance on Her Majesty at Hampton Court, and kissed her fair 
finger-tips to him, by way of adieu, when he rode thither to 
take his leave. She received her kinsman in a waiting-room, 
where there were half-a-dozen more ladies of the Court, so 
that his high-flown speeches, had he intended to make any 
(and very likely he did), were impossible ; and she announced 
to her friends that her cousin was going to the army in as 
easy a manner as she would have said he was going to a 
chocolate-house. He asked with a rather rueful face if she 
had any orders for the army ? and she was pleased to say that 
she would like a mantle of Mechlin lace. She made him a 
saucy curtsey in reply to his own dismal bow. She deigned to 
kiss her finger-tips from the window, where she stood laugh- 
ing with the other ladies, and chanced to see him as he made 
his way to the “ Toy.” The Dowager at Chelsey was not 
sorry to part with him this time. ‘‘ Mon cher, vous etes triste 
comme un sermon,” she did him the hononr to say to him ; in- 
deed, gentlemen in his condition are by no means amusing 
companions, and besides, the fickle old woman had now found 


26 i 


Henry Esmond 

a much more amiable favourite, and raffole^d for her darling 
lieutenant of the Guard. Frank remained behind for a while, 
and did not join the army till later, in the suite of his Grace 
the Commander-in-Chief. His dear mother, on the last day 
before Esmond went away, and when the three dined together, 
made Esmond promise to befriend her boy, and besought Frank 
to take the example of his kinsman as of a loyal gentleman 
and brave soldier, so she was pleased to say ; and at parting, 
betrayed not the least sign of faltering or weakness, though, 
God knows, that fond heart was fearful enough when others 
were concerned, though so resolute in bearing its own 
pain. 

Esmond’s General embarked at Harwich. ’Twas a grand 
sight to see Mr Webb dressed in scarlet on the deck, waving 
his hat as our yacht put off, and the guns saluted from the 
shore. Harry did not see his Viscount again, until three 
months after, at Bois-le-Duc, when his Grace the Duke came 
to take the command, and Frank brought a budget of news 
from home : how he had supped with this actress, and got 
tired of that ; how he had got the better of Mr St John, both 
over the bottle, and with Mrs Mountford, of the Haymarket 
Theatre (a veteran charmer of fifty, with whom the young 
scapegrace chose to fancy himself in love) ; how his sister 
was always at her tricks, and had jilted a young baron for an 
old earl. ** I can’t make out Beatrix,” he said ; “ she cares for 
none of us — she only thinks about herself ; she is never happy 
unless she is quarrelling ; but as for my mother — my mother, 
Harry, is an angel.” Harry tried to impress on the young 
fellow the necessity of doing everything in his power to please 
that angel ; not to drink too much *, not to go into debt ; not 
to run after the pretty Flemish girls, and so forth, as became 
a senior speaking to a lad. But Lord bless thee ! ” the boy 
said ; ‘‘I may do what I like, and I know she will love me all 
the same ; ” and so indeed he did what he liked. Every- 
body spoiled him, and his grave kinsman as much as the 
rest. 


262 


The History of 


Chapter XII 

I Get a Company in the Campaign of 1706 

On Whit Sunday, the famous 23rd of May 1706, my young 
lord first came under the fire of the enemy, whom we found 
posted in order of battle, their lines extending three miles or 
more, over the high ground behind the little Gheet river, and 
having on his left the little village of Anderkirk or Autre- 
eglise, and on his right Ramillies, which has given its name 
to one of the most brilliant and disastrous days of battle that 
history ever hath recorded. 

Our Duke here once more met his old enemy of Blenheim, 
the Bavarian Elector and the Marechal Villeroy, over whom 
the Prince of Savoy had gained the famous victory of Chiari. 
What Englishman or Frenchman doth not know the issue of 
that day ? Having chosen his own ground, having a force 
superior to the English, and besides the excellent Spanish and 
Bavarian troops, the whole Maison-du-Roy with him, the most 
splendid body of horse in the world, — in an hour (and in spite 
of the prodigious gallantry of the French Royal Household, 
who charged through the centre of our line and broke it) this 
magnificent army of Villeroy was utterly routed by troops 
that had been marching for twelve hours, and by the intrepid 
skill of a commander who did, indeed, seem in the presence of 
the enemy to be the very Genius of Victory. 

I think it was more from conviction than policy, though that 
policy was surely the most prudent in the world, that the 
great Duke always spoke of his victories with an extraordinary 
modesty, and as if it was not so much his own admirable 
genius and courage which achieved these amazing successes, 
but as if he was a special and fatal instrument in the hands 
of Providence, that willed irresistibly the enemy’s overthrow. 
Before his actions he always had the Church service read 
solemnly, and professed an undoubting belief that our Queen’s 
arms were blessed and our victory sure. All the letters which 
he writ after his battles show awe rather than exultation ; and 
he attributes the glory of these achievements, about which I 


Henry Esmond 263 

have heard mere petty officers and men bragging with a 
pardonable vain-glory, in nowise to his own bravery or skill, 
but to the superintending protection of Heaven, which he 
ever seemed to think was our special ally. And our army 
got to believe so, and the enemy learnt to think so too ; for 
we never entered into battle without a perfect confidence that 
it was to end in a victory ; nor did the French, after the issue 
of Blenheim, and that astonishing triumph of Ramillies, ever 
meet us without feeling that the game was lost before it was 
begun to be played, and that our General’s fortune was irre- 
sistible. Here, as at Blenheim, the Duke’s charger was shot, 
and ’twas thought for a moment he was dead. As he mounted 
another, Binfield, his master of the horse, kneeling to hold his 
Grace’s stirrup, had his head shot away by a cannon-bafl. A 
French gentleman of the Royal Household, that was a prisoner 
with us, told the writer that at the time of the charge of the 
Household, when their horse and ours were mingled, an Irish 
officer recognised the Prince-Duke, and calling out “ Marl- 
borough, Marlborough ! ” fired his pistol at him k hout-portant, 
and that a score more carbines and pistols were discharged at 
him. Not one touched him : he rode through the French 
Cuirassiers sword in hand, and entirely unhurt, and calm and 
smiling, rallied the German Horse, that was reeling before 
the enemy, brought these and twenty squadrons of Orkney’s 
back upon them, and drove the French across the river, again 
leading the charge himself, and defeating the only dangerous 
move the French made that day. 

Major-General Webb commanded on the left of our line, 
and had his own regiment under the orders of their beloved 
colonel. Neither he nor they belied their character for 
gallantry on this occasion j but it was about his dear young 
lord that Esmond was anxious, never having sight of him 
save once, in the whole course of the day, when he brought 
an order from the Commander-in-Chief to Mr Webb. When 
our horse, having charged round the right flank of the enemy 
by Overkirk, had thrown him into entire confusion, a general 
advance was made, and our whole line of foot, crossing the 
little river and the morass, ascended the high ground where the 
French were posted, cheering as they went, the enemy retreat- 


264 The History of 

ing before them. ’Twas a service of more glory than danger, 
the French battalions never waiting to exchange push of pike 
or bayonet with ours ; and the gunners flying from their 
pieces, which our line left behind us as they advanced, and 
the French fell back. 

At first it was a retreat orderly enough ; but presently the 
retreat became a rout, and a frightful slaughter of the French 
ensued on this panic : so that an army of sixty thousand men 
was utterly crushed and destroyed in the course of a couple of 
hours. It was as if a hurricane had seized a compact numerous 
fleet, flung it all to the winds, shattered, sunk, and annihilated 
it : afflavit Deus, et dissipati sunt. The French army of Flanders 
was gone ; their artillery, their standards, their treasure, pro- 
visions, and ammunition were all left behind them : the poor 
devils had even fled without their soup-kettles, which are as 
much the palladia of the French infantry as of the Grand 
Seignior’s Janissaries, and round which they rally even more 
than round their lilies. 

The pursuit, and a dreadful carnage which ensued (for the 
dregs of a battle, however brilliant, are ever a base residue 
of rapine, cruelty, and drunken plunder), was carried far 
beyond the field of Ramillies. 

Honest Lockwood, Esmond’s servant, no doubt wanted to 
be among the marauders himself and take his share of the 
booty ; . for when, the action over, and the troops got to their 
ground for the night, the Captain bade Lockwood get a horse, 
he asked, with a very rueful countenance, whether his honour 
would have him come too ; but his honour only bade him go 
about his own business, and Jack hopped away quite delighted 
as soon as he saw his master mounted. Esmond made his 
way, and not without danger and difficulty, to his Grace’s 
headquarters, and found for himself very quickly where the 
aide-de-camps’ quarters were, in an outbuilding of a farm, 
where several of these gentlemen were seated, drinking and 
singing, and at supper. If he had any anxiety about his boy, 
’twas relieved at once. One of the gentlemen was singing a 
song to a tune that Mr Farquhar and Mr Gay both had used 
in their admirable comedies, and very popular in the army of 
that day ; and after the song came a chorus “ Over the hills 


Henry Esmond 265 

and far away ; ” and Esmond heard Frank’s fresh voice, soaring, 
as it were, over the songs of the rest of the young men — a 
voice that had always a certain artless, indescribable pathos 
with it, and indeed which caused Mr Esmond’s eyes to fill 
I with tears now, out of thankfulness to God the child was safe 
and still alive to laugh and sing. 

When the song was over Esmond entered the room, where 
he knew several of the gentlemen present, and there sat my 
young lord, having taken ofF^ his cuirass, his waistcoat open, 

; his face flushed, his long yellow hair hanging over his 
i shoulders, drinking with the rest ; the youngest, gayest, 
handsomest there. As soon as he saw Esmond, he clapped 
' down his glass, and, running towards his friend, put both 
: his arms round him and embraced him. The other’s voice 
trembled with joy as he greeted the lad ; he had thought but 
I now as he stood in the courtyard under the clear-shining 
moonlight : “ Great God ! what a scene of murder is here 
i within a mile of us ; what hundreds and thousands have faced 
danger to-day; and here are these lads singing over their cups, 
and the same moon that is shining over yonder horrid field is 
j looking down on Walcote very likely, while my Lady sits 
and thinks about her boy that is at the war.” As Esmond 
< embraced his young pupil now, ’twas with the feeling of 
i quite religious thankfulness and an almost paternal pleasure 
that he beheld him. 

i Round his neck was a star with a striped ribbon, that 
was made of small brilliants and might be worth a hundred 
crowns. “ Look,” says he, “ won’t that be a pretty present 
for mother ? ” 

j “Who gave you the Order.?” says Harry, saluting the 
1 gentleman : “did you win it in battle.?” 

“ I won it,” cried the other, “ with my sword and my spear. 
There was a mousquetaire that had it round his neck — such a 
big mousquetaire, as big as General Webb. I called out to 
him to surrender, and that I’d give him quarter : he called me 
a petit polisson and fired his pistol at me, and then sent it at 
my head with a curse. I rode at him, sir, drove my sword 
right under his armhole, and broke it in the rascal’s body. I 
found a purse in his holster with sixty-five Louis in it, and a 


266 


The History of 

bundle of love-letters, and a flask of Hungary-water. Five 
la guerre! there are the ten pieces you lent me. I should 
like to have a fight every day ; ” and he pulled at his little 
moustache and bade a servant bring a supper to Captain 
Esmond. 

Harry fell to with a very good appetite : he had tasted 
nothing since twenty hours ago, at early dawn. Master 
Grandson, who read this, do you look for the history of 
battles and sieges ? Go, find them in the proper books ; 
this is only the story of your grandfather and his family. 
Far more pleasant to him than the victory, though for that 
too he may say meminisse juvat^ it was to find that the day 
was over, and his dear young Castlewood was unhurt. 

And would you, sirrah, wish to know how it was that 
a sedate Captain of Foot, a studious and rather solitary 
bachelor of eight or nine and twenty years of age, who did 
not care very much for the jollities which his comrades 
engaged in, and was never known to lose his heart in any 
garrison-town — should you wish to know why such a man 
had so prodigious a tenderness, and tended so fondly a boy 
of eighteen, wait, my good friend, until thou art in love with 
thy schoolfellow’s sister, and then see how mighty tender 
thou wilt be towards him. Esmond’s General and his Grace 
the Prince-Duke were notoriously at variance, and the former’s 
friendship was in nowise likely to advance any man’s promotion 
of whose services Webb spoke well ; but rather likely to 
injure him, so the army said, in the favour of the greater 
man. However, Mr Esmond had the good fortune to be 
mentioned very advantageously by Major-General Webb in 
his report after the action ; and the major of his regiment 
and two of the captains having been killed upon the day of 
Ramillies, Esmond, who was second of the lieutenants, got 
his company, and had the honour of serving as Captain 
Esmond in the next campaign. 

My Lord went home in the winter, but Esmond was afraid 
to follow him. His dear mistress wrote him letters more than 
once, thanking him, as mothers know how to thank, for his 
care and protection of her boy, extolling Esmond’s own merits 
with a great deal more praise than they deserved, for he did 


267 


Henry Esmond 

his duty no better than any other officer ; and speaking some- 
times, though gently and cautiously, of Beatrix. News came 
from home of at least half-a-dozen grand matches that the 
beautiful maid of honour was about to make. She was en- 
gaged to an earl, our gentlemen of St James’s said, and then 
jilted him for a duke, who, in his turn, had drawn off. Earl 
or duke it might be who should win this Helen, Esmond knew 
she would never bestow herself on a poor captain. Her con- 
duct, it was clear, was little satisfactory to her mother, who 
scarcely mentioned her, or else the kind lady thought it was 
best to say nothing, and leave time to work out its cure. At 
any rate, Harry was best away from the fatal object which 
always wrought him so much mischief ; and so he never asked 
for leave to go home, but remained with his regiment that was 
garrisoned in Brussels, which city fell into our hands when the 
victory of Ramillies drove the French out of Flanders. 

Chapter XIII 

I Meet an Old Acquaintance in Flanders, and Find my Mother’s 
Grave and my own Cradle there 

Being one day in the Church of St Gudule, at Brussels, ad- 
miring the antique splendour of the architecture (and always 
entertaining a great tenderness and reverence for the Mother 
Church, that hath been as wickedly persecuted in England as 
ever she herself persecuted in the days of her prosperity), 
Esmond saw kneeling at a side altar an officer in a green 
uniform coat, very deeply engaged in devotion. Something 
familiar in the figure and posture of the kneeling man struck 
Captain Esmond, even before he saw the officer’s face. As he 
rose up, putting away into his pocket a little black breviary, 
such as priests use, Esmond beheld a countenance so like that 
of his friend and tutor of early days. Father Holt, that he 
broke out into an exclamation of astonishment and advanced a 
step towards the gentleman, who was making his way out of 
church. The German officer too looked surprised whon he saw 
Esmond, and his face from being pale grew suddenly red. By 


268 


The History of 

this mark of recognition the Englishman knew that he could 
not be mistaken ; and though the other did not stop, but on 
the contrary rather hastily walked away towards the door, 
Esmond pursued him and faced him once more, as the officer, 
helping himself to holy water, turned mechanically towards the 
altar, to bow to it ere he quitted the sacred edifice. 

“ My Father ! ” says Esmond in English. 

“ Silence ! I do not understand. I do not speak English,” 
says the other in Latin. 

Esmond smiled at this sign of confusion, and replied in the 
same language, “ I should know my Father in any garment, 
black or white, shaven or bearded ; ” for the Austrian officer 
was habited quite in the military manner, and had as warlike a 
mustachio as any Pandour. 

He laughed — we were on the church steps by this time, 
passing through the crowd of beggars that usually is there 
holding up little trinkets for sale and whining for alms. “You 
speak Latin,” says he, “ in the English way, Harry Esmond ; 
you have forsaken the old true Roman tongue you once knew.” 
His tone was very frank, and friendly quite ; the kind voice of 
fifteen years back ; he gave Esmond his hand as he spoke. 

“ Others have changed their coats too, my Father,” says 
Esmond, glancing at his friend’s military decoration. 

“ Hush ! I am Mr or Captain von Holtz, in the Bavarian 
Elector’s service, and on a mission to his Highness the Prince 
of Savoy. You can keep a secret I know from old times.” 

“ Captain von Holtz,” says Esmond, “ I am your very humble 
servant.” 

“ And you, too, have changed your coat,” continues the 
other, in his laughing way. “ I have heard of you at Cam- 
bridge and afterwards : we have friends everywhere ; and I 
am told that Mr Esmond at Cambridge was as good a fencer as 
he was a bad theologian.” (So, thinks Esmond, my old mattre 
(Tarmes was a Jesuit, as they said.) 

“ Perhaps you are right,” says the other, reading his thoughts 
quite as he used to do in old days ; “ you were all but killed 
at Hochstedt of a wound in the left side. You were before 
that at Vigo, aide-de-camp to the Duke of Ormond. You got 
your company the other day after Ramillies ; your General 


Henry Esmond 269 

and the Prince-Duke are not friends ; he is of the Webbs of 
Lydiard Tregoze, in the county of York, a relation of my 
Lord St John. Your cousin, M. de Castlewood, served his 
first campaign this year in the Guard. Yes, I do know a few 
things, as you see.” 

Captain Esmond laughed in his turn. You have indeed a 
curious knowledge,” he says. A foible of Mr Holt’s, who 
did know more about books and men than, perhaps, almost 
any person Esmond had ever met, was omniscience ; thus in 
every point he here professed to know, he was nearly right, 
but not quite. Esmond’s wound was in the right side, not 
the left ; his first General was General Lumley ; Mr Webb 
came out of Wiltshire, not out of Yorkshire ; and so forth. 
Esmond did not think fit to correct his old master in these 
trifling blunders, but they served to give him a knowledge of 
the other’s character, and he smiled to think that this was his 
oracle of early days ; only now no longer infallible or divine. 

“ Yes,” continues Father Holt, or Captain von Holtz, ‘‘ for 
a man who has not been in England these eight years, I know 
what goes on in London very well. The old Dean is dead, 

I my Lady Castlewood’s father. Do you know that your 
\ recusant bishops wanted to consecrate him Bishop of South- 
I ampton, and that Collier is Bishop of Thetford by the same 
li imposition ? The Princess Anne has the gout and eats 
\ too much ; when the King returns. Collier will be an arch- 
i bishop.” 

^ “ Amen ! ” says Esmond, laughing ; “ and I hope to see 

« your Eminence no longer in jackboots, but red stockings at 
' Whitehall.” 

“You are always with us — I know that — I heard of that 
when you were at Cambridge ; so was the late lord *, so is the 
, young Viscount.” 

! “ And so was my father before me,” said Mr Esmond, 

: looking calmly at the other, who did not, however, show the 
least sign of intelligence in his impenetrable grey eyes — how 
■ well Harry remembered them and their look ! only crow’s-feet 
i| were wrinkled round them — marks of black old Time had 
ij settled there. 

Esmond’s face chose to show no more sign of meaning than 


270 The History of 

the Father’s. There may have been on the one side and the 
other just the faintest glitter of recognition, as you see a 
bayonet shining out of an ambush ; but each party fell back, 
when everything was again dark. 

** And you, mon capitaine, where have you been ? ” says 
Esmond, turning away the conversation from this dangerous 
ground, where neither chose to engage. 

‘‘ I may have been in Pekin,” says he, or I may have 
been in Paraguay — who knows where I am now Captain 
von Holtz, in the service of his Electoral Highness, come to 
negotiate exchange of prisoners with his Highness of Savoy.” 

’Twas well known that very many officers in our army were 
well-affected towards the young King at St Germains, whose 
right to the throne was undeniable, and whose accession to it, 
at the death of his sister, by far the greater part of the English 
people would have preferred, to the having a petty German 
prince for a sovereign, about whose cruelty, rapacity, boorish 
manners, and odious foreign ways, a thousand stories were 
current. It wounded our English pride to think that a shabby 
High-Dutch duke, whose revenues were not a tithe as great as 
those of many of the princes of our ancient English nobility, 
who could not speak a word of our language, and whom we 
chose to represent as a sort of German boor, feeding on train- 
oil and sour-crout with a bevy of mistresses in a barn, should 
come to reign over the proudest and most polished people in 
the world. Were we, the conquerors of the Grand Monarch, 
to submit to that ignoble domination What did the Hano- 
verian’s Protestantism matter to us .? Was it not notorious 
(we were told and led to believe so) that one of the daughters 
of this Protestant hero was being bred up with no religion at 
all, as yet, and ready to be made Lutheran or Roman, accord- 
ing as the husband might be whom her parents should find 
for her ? This talk, very idle and abusive much of it was, 
went on at a hundred mess-tables in the army ; there was 
scarce an ensign that did not hear it, or join in it, and every- 
body knew, or affected to know, that the Commander-in- 
Chief himself had relations with his nephew, the Duke of 
Berwick (’twas by an Englishman, thank God, that we were 
beaten at Almanza), and that his Grace was most anxious to 


Henry Esmond 271 

restore the royal race of his benefactors, and to repair his 
former treason. 

This is certain, that for a considerable period no officer in 
the Duke’s army lost favour with the Commander-in-Chief for 
entertaining or proclaiming his loyalty towards the exiled 
family. When the Chevalier de St George, as the King of 
i England called himself, came with the dukes of the French 
I blood-royal, to join the French army under Vendosme, hun- 
dreds of ours saw him and cheered him, and we all said he 
was like his father in this, who, seeing the action of La Hogue 
fought between the French ships and ours, was on the side of 
[ his native country during the battle. But this at least the 
I Chevalier knew, and every one knew, that, however well our 
troops and their general might be inclined towards the Prince 
personally, in the face of the enemy there was no question at 
all. Wherever my Lord Duke found a French army, he 
would fight and beat it, as he did at Oudenarde, two years 
after Ramillies, where his Grace achieved another of his 
transcendent victories ; and the noble young Prince, who 
charged gallantly along with the magnificent Maison-du-Roy, 
i sent to compliment his conquerors after the action. 

In this battle, where the young Electoral Prince of Hanover 
behaved himself very gallantly, fighting on our side, Esmond’s 
dear General Webb distinguished himself prodigiously, ex- 
hibiting consummate skill and coolness as a general, and 
i fighting with the personal bravery of a common soldier. 
Esmond’s good luck again attended him ; he escaped without 
a hurt, although more than a third of his regiment was killed, 
had again the honour to be favourably mentioned in his com- 
mander’s report, and was advanced to the rank of Major. But 
of this action there is little need to speak, as it hath been re- 
lated in every Gazette, and talked of in every hamlet in this 
country. To return from it to the writer’s private affairs, 
which here, in his old age, and at a distance, he narrates for 
his children who come after him. Before Oudenarde, after 
that chance rencontre with Captain von Holtz at Brussels, a 
space of more than a year elapsed, during which the captain 
of Jesuits and the captain of Webb’s Fusileers were thrown 
very much together. Esmond had no difficulty in finding out 


272 


The History of 

(indeed, the other made no secret of it to him, being assured 
from old times of his pupil’s fidelity) that the negotiator of 
prisoners was an agent from St Germains, and that he carried 
intelligence between great personages in our camp and that 
of the French. ‘‘ My business,” said he — “and I tell you, 
both because I can trust you and your keen eyes have already 
discovered it — is between the King of England and his sub- 
jects here engaged in fighting the French King. As between 
you and them, all the Jesuits in the world will not prevent 
your quarrelling : fight it out, gentlemen. St George for 
England, I say — and you know who says so, wherever he 
may be.” 

1 think Holt loved to make a parade of mystery, as it 
were, and would appear and disappear at our quarters as 
suddenly as he used to return and vanish in the old days at 
Castlewood. He had passes between both armies, and seemed 
to know (but with that inaccuracy which belonged to the 
good Father’s omniscience) equally well what passed in the 
French camp and in ours. One day he would give Esmond 
news of a great feste that took place in the French quarters, 
of a supper of Monsieur de Rohan’s where there was play 
and violins, and then dancing and masques ; the King drove 
thither in Marshal Villars’ own guinguette. Another day he 
had the news of His Majesty’s ague : the King had not had a 
fit these ten days, and might be said to be well. Captain 
Holtz made a visit to England during this time, so eager was 
he about negotiating prisoners ; and ’twas on returning from 
this voyage that he began to open himself more to Esmond, 
and to make him, as occasion served, at their various meet- 
ings, several of those confidences which are here set down all 
together. 

The reason of his increased confidence was this : upon 
going to London, the old director of Esmond’s aunt, the 
Dowager, paid her Ladyship a visit at Chelsey, and there 
learnt from her that Captain Esmond was acquainted with the 
secret of his family, and was determined never to divulge it. 
The knowledge of this fact raised Esmond in his old tutor’s 
eyes, so Holt was pleased to say, and he admired Harry very 
much for his abnegation. 


273 


Henry Esmond 

“ The family at Castlewood have done far more for me 
than my own ever did,” Esmond said. “ I would give my 
life for them. Why should I grudge the only benefit that 
’tis in my power to confer on them?” The good Father’s 
eyes filled with tears at this speech, which to the other 
seemed very simple : he embraced Esmond, and broke out 
into many admiring expressions ; he said he was a noble coeur, 
that he was proud of him, and fond of him as his pupil and 
friend — regretted more than ever that he had lost him, and 
been forced to leave him in those early times, when he 
might have had an influence over him, have brought him 
into that only true Church to which the Father belonged, 
and enlisted him in the noblest army in which a man ever 
engaged — meaning his own Society of Jesus, which numbers 
(says he) in its troops the greatest heroes the world ever 
knew : — warriors brave enough to dare or endure anything, to 
encounter any odds, to die any death ; — soldiers that have won 
triumphs a thousand times more brilliant than those of the 
greatest general ; that have brought nations on their knees to 
their sacred banner, the Cross ; that have achieved glories and 
palms incomparably brighter than those awarded to the most 
splendid earthly conquerors — crowns of immortal light, and 
; seats in the high places of heaven. 

Esmond was thankful for his old friend’s good opinion, 
I however little he might share the Jesuit Father’s enthusiasm. 
I “ I have thought of that question, too,” says he, ‘‘ dear 
Father,” and he took the other’s hand — “ thought it out for 
( myself, as all men must, and contrive to do the right, and 
trust to Heaven as devoutly in my way as you in yours. 
Another six months of you as a child, and I had desired no 
better. I used to weep upon my pillow at Castlewood as I 
thought of you, and I might have been a brother of your 
1 order; and who knows,” Esmond added with a smile, ‘‘a 
: priest in full orders, and with a pair of mustachois,, and a 
! Bavarian uniform ! ” 

My son,” says Father Holt, turning red, ‘‘ in the cause of 
! religion and loyalty all disguises are fair.” 

, “ Yes,” broke in Esmond, “ all disguises are fair, you say ; 
I and all uniforms, say I, black or red — a black cockade or a 

s 


274 The History of 

white one — or a laced hat, or a sombrero, with a tonsure 
under it. I cannot believe that Saint Francis Xavier sailed 
over the sea in a cloak, or raised the dead — I tried, and very 
nearly did once, but cannot. Suffer me to do the right, and 
to hope for the best in my own way.” 

Esmond wished to cut short the good Father’s theology, and 
succeeded ; and the other, sighing over his pupil’s invincible 
ignorance, did not withdraw his affection from him, but gave 
him his utmost confidence — as much, that is to say, as a priest 
can give : more than most do ; for he was naturally garrulous, 
and too eager to speak. 

Holt’s friendship encouraged Captain Esmond to ask, what 
he long wished to know, and none could tell him, some history 
of the poor mother whom he had often imagined in his dreams, 
and whom he never knew. He described to Holt those 
circumstances which are already put down in the first part of 
this story — the promise he had made to his dear lord, and that 
dying friend’s confession ; and he besought Mr Holt to tell 
him what he knew regarding the poor woman from whom he 
had been taken. 

“ She was of this very town,” Holt said, and took Esmond 
to see the street where her father lived, and where, as he 
believed, she was born. ‘‘In 1676, when your father came 
hither in the retinue of the late King, then Duke of York, and 
banished hither in disgrace, Captain Thomas Esmond became 
acquainted with your mother, pursued her, and made a victim 
of her ; he hath told me in many subsequent conversations, 
which I felt bound to keep private then, that she was a 
woman of great virtue and tenderness, and in all respects a 
most fond, faithful creature. He called himself Captain 
Thomas, having good reason to be ashamed of his conduct 
towards her, and hath spoken to me many times with sincere 
remorse for that, as with fond love for her many amiable 
qualities. He owned to having treated her very ill : and 
that at this time his life was one of profligacy, gambling, and 
poverty. She became with child of you ; was cursed by her 
own parents at that discovery ; though she never upbraided, 
except by her involuntary tears, and the misery depicted on 
her countenance, the author of her wretchedness and ruin. 


275 


Henry Esmond 

“Thomas Esmond — Captain Thomas, as he was called — 
became engaged in a gaming-house brawl, of which the conse- 
quence was a duel, and a wound so severe that he never — his 
surgeon said — could outlive it. Thinking his death certain, 
and touched with remorse, he sent for a priest of the very 
Church of St Gudule, where I met you ; and on the same day, 
after his making submission to our Church, was married to 
your mother a few weeks before you were born. My Lord 
Viscount Castlewood, Marquis of Esmond, by King James’s 
patent, which I myself took to your father, your Lordship was 
christened at St Gudule by the same cure who married your 
parents, and by the name of Henry Thomas, son of E. Thomas, 
officier Anglois, and Gertrude Maes. You see you belong to 
us from your birth, and why I did not christen you when you 
became my dear little pupil at Castlewood. 

“ Your father’s wound took a favourable turn — perhaps his 
conscience was eased by the right he had done — and to the 
surprise of the doctors he recovered. But as his health came 
back, his wicked nature, too, returned. He was tired of the 
poor girl whom he had ruined ; and receiving some remittance 
from his uncle, my Lord the old Viscount, then in England, he 
pretended business, promised return, and never saw your poor 
mother more. 

“ He owned to me, in confession first, but afterwards in talk 
before your aunt, his wife, else I never could have disclosed 
what I now tell you, that on coming to London he writ a 
pretended confession to poor Gertrude Maes — Gertrude 
Esmond — of his having been married in England previously, 
before uniting himself with her ; said that his name was not 
Thomas ; that he was about to quit Europe for the Virginian 
plantations, where, indeed, your family had a grant of land 
from King Charles the First ; sent her a supply of money, the 
half of the last hundred guineas he had, entreated her pardon, 
and bade her farewell. 

“ Poor Gertrude never thought that the news in this letter 
might be untrue as the rest of your father’s conduct to her. 
But though a young man of her own degree, who knew her 
history, and whom she liked before she saw the English 
gentleman who was the cause of all her misery, offered to 


276 The History of 

marry her, and to adopt you as his own child, and give you 
his name, she refused him. This refusal only angered her 
father, who had taken her home ; she never held up her head 
there, being the subject of constant unkindness after her fall ; 
and some devout ladies of her acquaintance offering to pay a 
little pension for her, she went into a convent, and you were 
put out to nurse. 

A sister of the young fellow who would have adopted you 
as his son was the person who took charge of you. Your 
mother and this person were cousins. She had just lost a 
child of her own, which you replaced, your own mother being 
too sick and feeble to feed you ; and presently your nurse 
grew so fond of you, that she even grudged letting you visit 
the convent where your mother was, and where the nuns 
petted the little infant, as they pitied and loved its unhappy 
parent. Her vocation became stronger every day, and at the 
end of two years she was received as a sister of the house. 

“ Your nurse’s family were silk weavers out of France, 
whither they returned to Arras in French Flanders, shortly 
before your mother took her vows, carrying you with them, 
then a child of three years old. ’Twas a town, before the 
late vigorous measures of the French King, full of Protestants, 
and here your nurse’s father, old Pastoureau, he with whom 
you afterwards lived at Ealing, adopted the reformed doctrines, 
perverting all his house with him. They were expelled thence 
by the edict of His Most Christian Majesty, and came to 
London, and set up their looms in Spittlefields. The old man 
brought a little money with him, and carried on his trade, but 
in a poor way. He was a widower ; by this time his daughter, 
a widow too, kept house for him, and his son and he laboured 
together at their vocation. Meanwhile your father had publicly 
owned his conversion just before King Charles’s death (in 
whom our Church had much such another convert), was 
reconciled to my Lord Viscount Castlewood, and married, 
as you know, to his daughter. 

‘‘ It chanced that the younger Pastoureau, going with a 
piece of brocade to the mercer who employed him, on 
Ludgate Hill, met his old rival coming out of an ordinary 
there. Pastoureau knew your father at once, seized him by 


Henry Esmond 277 

the collar, and upbraided him as a villain, who had seduced 
his mistress, and afterwards deserted her and her son. Mr 
Thomas Esmond also recognised Pastoureau at once, besought 
him to calm his indignation, and not to bring a crowd round 
about them ; and bade him to enter into the tavern, out of 
which he had just stepped, when he would give him any 
explanation. Pastoureau entered, and heard the landlord 
order a drawer to show Captain Thomas to a room ; it 
was by his Christian name that your father was familiarly 
called at his tavern haunts, which, to say the truth, were 
none of the most reputable. 

I must tell you that Captain Thomas, or my Lord Viscount 
afterwards, was never at a loss for a story, and could cajole a 
woman or a dun with a volubility, and an air of simplicity at 
the same time, of which many a creditor of his has been the 
dupe. His tales used to gather verisimilitude as he went on 
with them. He strung together fact after fact with a wonder- 
ful rapidity and coherence. It required, saving your presence, 
a very long habit of acquaintance with your father to know 
when his Lordship was I , — telling the truth or no. 

“ He told me with rueful remorse when he was ill — for the 
fear of death set him instantly repenting, and with shrieks of 
laughter when he was well, his Lordship having a very great 
sense of humour — how in half-an-hour’s time, and before a 
bottle was drunk, he had completely succeeded in biting 
poor Pastoureau. The seduction he owned to : that he could 
not help : he was quite ready with tears at a moment’s warn- 
ing, and shed them profusely to melt his credulous listener. 
He wept for your mother even more than Pastoureau did, who 
cried very heartily, poor fellow, as my Lord informed me ; 
he swore upon his honour that he had twice sent money to 
Brussels, and mentioned the name of the merchant with whom 
it was lying for poor Gertrude’s use. He did not even know 
whether she had a child or no, or whether she was alive or 
dead ; but got these facts easily out of honest Pastoureau’s 
answers to him. When he heard that she was in a covent, he 
said he hoped to end his days in one himself, should he survive 
his wife, whom he hated, and had been forced by a cruel 
father to marry, and when he was told that Gertrude’s son was 


278 The History of 

alive, and actually in London, ‘ I started,’ says he ; * for then, 
damme, my wife was expecting to lie-in, and I thought should 
this old Put, my father-in-law, run rusty, here would be a 
good chance to frighten him.’ 

He expressed the deepest gratitude to the Pastoureau 
family for the care of the infant; you were now near six years 
old; and on Pastoureau bluntly telling him, when he proposed 
to go that instant and see the darling child, that they never 
wished to see his ill-omened face again within their doors ; 
that he might have the boy, though they should all be very 
sorry to lose him ; and that they would take his money, they 
being poor, if he gave it ; or bring him up, by God’s help, as 
they had hitherto done, without: he acquiesced in this at once, 
with a sigh, said, ‘ Well, ’twas better that the dear child 
should remain with friends who had been so admirably kind 
to him ; ’ and in his talk to me afterwards, honestly praised 
and admired the weaver’s conduct and spirit ; owned that the 
Frenchman was a right fellow, and he, the Lord have mercy 
upon him, a sad villain. 

“ Your father,” Mr Holt went on to say, “ was good- 
natured with his money when he had it ; and having that 
day received a supply from his uncle, gave the weaver ten 
pieces with perfect freedom, and promised him further remit- 
tances. He took down eagerly Pastoureau’s name and place 
of abode in his table-book, and when the other asked him for 
his own, gave, with the utmost readiness, his name as Captain 
Thomas, New Lodge, Penzance, Cornwall ; he said he was in 
London for a few days only on business connected with his 
wife’s property ; described her as a shrew, though a woman of 
kind disposition ; and depicted his father as a Cornish squire, 
in an infirm state of health, at whose death he hoped for 
something handsome, when he promised richly to reward the 
admirable protector of his child, and to provide for the boy. 

‘ And by Gad, sir,’ he said to me in his strange laughing way, 

‘ I ordered a piece of brocade of the very same pattern as that 
which the fellow was carrying, and presented it to my wife 
for a morning wrapper, to receive company after she lay-in of 
our little boy.’ 

‘‘ Your little pension was paid regularly enough; and when 


279 


Henry Esmond 

your father became Viscount Castlewood on his uncle’s demise, 
I was employed to keep a watch over you, and ’twas at my 
instance that you were brought home. Your foster-mother 
was dead ; her father made acquaintance with a woman whom 
he married, who quarrelled with his son. The faithful 
creature came back to Brussels to be near the woman he 
loved, and died, too, a few months before her. Will you 
see her cross in the convent cemetery? The Superior is an 
old penitent of mine, and remembers Soeur Marie Madeleine 
fondly still.” 

Esmond came to this spot in one sunny evening of spring, 
and saw, amidst a thousand black crosses, casting their 
shadows across the grassy mounds, that particular one which 
marked his mother’s resting-place. Many more of those poor 
creatures that lay there had adopted that same name, with 
which sorrow had rebaptized her, and which fondly seemed to 
hint their individual story of love and grief. He fancied her 
in tears and darkness, kneeling at the foot of her cross, under 
which her cares were buried. Surely he knelt down, and said 
his own prayer there, not in sorrow so much as in awe (for 
even his memory had no recollection of her), and in pity for 
the pangs which the gentle soul in life had been made to 
suffer. To this cross she brought them ; for this heavenly 
bridegroom she exchanged the husband who had wooed her, 
the traitor who had left her. A thousand such hillocks lay 
round about, the gentle daisies springing out of the grass over 
them, and each bearing his cross and requiescat. A nun, 
veiled in black, was kneeling hard by, at a sleeping sister’s 
bedside (so fresh made, that the spring had scarce had time 
to spin a coverlid for it) ; beyond the cemetery walls you had 
glimpses of life and the world, and the spires and gables of 
the city. A bird came down from a roof opposite, and lit first 
on a cross, and then on the grass below it, whence it flew away 
presently with a leaf in its mouth ; then came a sound as of 
chanting, from the chapel of the sisters hard by ; others had 
long since filled the place which poor Mary Magdalene once 
had there, were kneeling at the same stall, and hearing the 
same hymns and prayers in which her stricken heart had found 


28o 


The History of 

consolation. Might she sleep in peace — might she sleep in 
peace ; and we, too, when our struggles and pains are over ! 
But the earth is the Lord’s as the heaven is ; we are alike His 
creatures here and yonder. I took a little flower ofF the hillock 
and kissed it, and went my way, like the bird that has just 
lighted on the cross by me, back into the world again. Silent 
receptacle of death ; tranquil depth of calm , out of reach of 
tempest and trouble ! I felt as one who had been walking 
below the sea, and treading amidst the bones of shipwrecks. 


Chapter XIV 

The Campaign of 1707, 1708 

During the whole of the year which succeeded that in which 
the glorious battle of Ramillies had been fought, our army 
made no movement of importance, much to the disgust of very 
many of our officers remaining inactive in Flanders, who said 
that his Grace the Captain-General had had fighting enough, 
and was all for money now, and the enjoyment of his five 
thousand a year and his splendid palace at Woodstock, which 
was now being built. And his Grace had sufficient occupation 
fighting his enemies at home this year, where it began to be 
whispered that his favour was decreasing, and his Duchess 
losing her hold on the Queen, who was transferring her royal 
affections to the famous Mrs Masham, and Mrs Masham’s 
humble servant, Mr Harley. Against their intrigues, our 
Duke passed a great part of his time intriguing. Mr Harley 
was got out of office, and his Grace, in so far, had a victory. 
But Her Majesty, convinced against her will, was of that 
opinion still, of which the poet says people are when so con- 
vinced, and Mr Harley before long had his revenge. 

Meanwhile the business of fighting did not go on any way 
to the satisfaction of Marlborough’s gallant lieutenants. Dur- 
ing all 1707, with the French before us, we had never so 
much as a battle ; our army in Spain was utterly routed at 
Almanza by the gallant Duke of Berwick ; and we of Webb’s, 
which regiment the young Duke had commanded before his 


28 i 


Henry Esmond 

father’s abdication, were a little proud to think that it was our 
colonel who had achieved this victory. I think if I had had 
Galway’s place, and my Fusileers,” says our General, ‘‘we 
would not have laid down our arms, even to our old colonel, 
as Galway did ; ” and Webb’s officers swore if we had had 
Webb, at least we would not have been taken prisoners. Our 
dear old General talked incautiously of himself and of others ; 
a braver or a more brilliant soldier never lived than he ; but 
he blew his honest trumpet rather more loudly than became 
a commander of his station, and, mighty man of valour as he 
was, shook his great spear and blustered before the army too 
fiercely. 

Mysterious Mr Holtz went off on a secret expedition in the 
early part of 1708, with great elation of spirits and a pro- 
phecy to Esmond that a wonderful something was about to 
take place. This secret came out on my friend’s return to the 
army, whither he brought a most rueful and dejected counten- 
ance, and owned that the great something he had been en- 
gaged upon, had failed utterly. He had been indeed with that 
luckless expedition of the Chevalier de St George, who was 
sent by the French King with ships and an army from Dun- 
kirk, and was to have invaded and conquered Scotland. But 
that ill wind which ever opposed all the projects upon which 
the Prince ever embarked, prevented the Chevalier’s invasion 
of Scotland, as ’tis known, and blew poor Monsieur von Holtz 
back into our camp again, to scheme and foretell, and to pry 
about as usual. The Chevalier (the King of England, as some 
of us held him) went from Dunkirk to the French army to 
make the campaign against us. The Duke of Burgundy had 
the command this year, having the Duke of Berry with him, 
and the famous Mareschal Vendosme and the Duke of 
Matignon to aid him in the campaign. Holtz, who knew 
everything that was passing in Flanders and France (and 
the Indies for what I know), insisted that there would be 
no more fighting in 1708 than there had been in the pre- 
vious year, and that our commander had reasons for keeping 
him quiet. Indeed, Esmond’s General, who was known as a 
grumbler, and to have a hearty mistrust of the great Duke, and 
hundreds more officers besides, did not scruple to say that these 


282 


The History of 

private reasons came to the Duke in the shape of crown-pieces 
from the French King, by whom the Generalissimo was bribed 
to avoid a battle. There were plenty of men in our lines, 
quidnuncs, to whom Mr Webb listened only too willingly, 
who could specify the exact sums the Duke got, how much 
fell to Cadogan’s share, and what was the precise fee given to 
Doctor Hare. 

And the successes with which the French began the cam- 
paign of 1708 served to give strength to these reports of 
treason, which were in everybody’s mouth. Our General 
allowed the enemy to get between us and Ghent, and declined 
to attack him though for eight-and-forty hours the armies were 
in presence of each other. Ghent was taken, and on the same 
day Monsieur de la Mothe summoned Bruges ; and these two 
great cities fell into the hands of the French without firing a 
shot. A few days afterwards La Mothe seized upon the fort 
of Plashendall : and it began to be supposed that all Spanish 
Flanders, as well as Brabant, would fall into the hands of the 
French troops ; when the Prince Eugene arrived from the 
Mozelle, and then there was no more shilly-shallying. 

The Prince of Savoy always signalised his arrival at the 
army by a great feast (my Lord Duke’s entertainments were 
both seldom and shabby) ; and I remember our General re- 
turning from this dinner with the two Commanders-in-Chief *, 
his honest head a little excited by wine, which was dealt out 
much more liberally by the Austrian than by the English 
commander : — ‘‘ Now,” says my General, slapping the table, 
with an oath, ‘‘ he must fight ; and when he is forced to it, 

d it, no man in Europe can stand up against Jack 

Churchill.” Within a week the battle of Oudenarde was 
fought, when, hate each other as they might, Esmond’s 
General and the Commander-in-Chief were forced to admire 
each other, so splendid was the gallantry of each upon this 
day. 

The brigade commanded by Major-General Webb gave and 
received about as hard knocks as any that were delivered in 
that action, in which Mr Esmond had the fortune to serve 
at the head of his own company in his regiment, under the 
command of their own Colonel as Major-General ; and it was 


Henry Esmond 283 

his good luck to bring the regiment out of action as commander 
of it, the four senior officers above him being killed in the 
prodigious slaughter which happened on that day. I like to 
think that Jack Haythorn, who sneered at me for being a 
bastard and a parasite of Webb’s, as he chose to call me, and 
, with whom I had had words, shook hands with me the day 
i before the battle begun. Three days before, poor Brace, our 
Lieutenant-Colonel, had heard of his elder brother’s death, and 
was heir to a baronetcy in Norfolk, and four thousand a year. 
Fate, that had left him harmless through a dozen campaigns, 

! seized on him just as the world was worth living for, and he 
I went into action knowing, as he said, that the luck was going 
to turn against him. The Major had just joined us — a creature 
of Lord Marlborough, put in much to the dislike of the other 
officers, and to be a spy upon us, as it was said. I know 
not whether the truth was so, nor who took the tattle of our 
mess to headquarters, but Webb’s regiment, as its Colonel, 
was known to be in the Commander-in-Chief’s black books : 
‘‘ And if he did not dare to break it up at home,” our gallant 
old chief used to say, “ he was determined to destroy it before 
the enemy ; ” so that poor Major Proudfoot was put into a post 
of danger. 

, Esmond’s dear young Viscount, serving as aide-de-camp to 
my Lord Duke, received a wound, and won an honourable 
name for himself in the Gazette; and Captain Esmond’s name 
i was sent in for promotion by his General, too, whose favourite 
I he was. It made his heart beat to think that certain eyes at 
I home, the brightest in the world, might read the page on 
I which his humble services were recorded ; but his mind was 
j made up steadily to keep out of their dangerous influence, and 
to let time and absence conquer that passion he had still lurk- 
, ing about him. Away from Beatrix, it did not trouble him ; 
! but he knew as certain that if he returned home, his fever 
would break out again, and avoided Walcote, as a Lincolnshire 
man avoids returning to his fens, where he is sure that the 
i ague is lying in wait for him. 

We of the English party in the army, who were inclined to 
sneer at everything that came out of Hanover, and to treat 
as little better than boors and savages the Elector’s Court 


284 The History of 

and family, were yet forced to confess that, on the day of 
Oudenarde, the young Electoral Prince, then making his first 
campaign, conducted himself with the spirit and courage of an 
approved soldier. On this occasion his Electoral Highness 
had better luck than the King of England, who was with his 
cousins in the enemy’s camp, and had to run with them at 
the ignominious end of the day. With the most consummate 
generals in the world before them, and an admirable com- 
mander on their own side, they chose to neglect the counsels, 
and to rush into a combat with the fornier, which would have 
ended in the utter annihilation of their army but for the great 
skill and bravery of the Duke of Vendosme, who remedied, as 
far as courage and genius might, the disasters occasioned by 
the squabbles and follies of his kinsmen, the legitimate princes 
of the blood-royal. 

“ If the Duke of Berwick had but been in the army, the 
fate of the day would have been very different,” was all that 
poor Mr von Holtz could say ; “ and you would have seen 
that the hero of Almanza was fit to measure swords with the 
conqueror of Blenheim.” 

The business relative to the exchange of prisoners was 
always going on, and was at least that ostensible one which 
kept Mr Holtz perpetually on the move between the forces of 
the French and the Allies. I can answer for it, that he was 
once very near hanged as a spy by Major-General Wayne, 
when he was released and sent on to headquarters, by a special 
order of the Commander-in-Chief. He came and went, always 
favoured, wherever he was, by some high though occult pro- 
tection. He carried messages between the Duke of Berwick 
and his uncle, our Duke. He seemed to know as well what 
was taking place in the Prince’s quarter as our own ; he brought 
the compliments of the King of England to some of our officers, 
the gentlemen of Webb’s among the rest, for their behaviour 
on that great day;' and after Wynendael, when our General 
was chafing at the neglect of our Commander-in-Chief, he said 
he knew how that action was regarded by the chiefs of the 
French army, and that the stand made before Wynendael 
Wood was the passage by which the Allies entered Lille. 

“ Ah ! ” says Holtz (and some folks were very willing to 


Henry Esmond 285 

listen to him), ‘*if the King came by his own, how changed 
the conduct of affairs would be ! His Majesty’s very exile 
has this advantage, that he is enabled to read England im- 
partially, and to judge honestly of all the eminent men. His 
sister is always in the hand of one greedy favourite or another, 
through whose eyes she sees, and to whose flattery or depen- 
dants she gives away everything. Do you suppose that His 
Majesty, knowing England so well as he does, would neglect 
such a man as General Webb ? He ought to be in the House 
of Peers, as Lord Lydiard. The enemy and all Europe know 
his merit ; it is that very reputation which certain great people, 
who hate all equality and independence, can never pardon.” 
It was intended that these conversations should be carried 
to Mr Webb. They were welcome to him, for great as his 
services were, no man could value them more than John Rich- 
mond Webb did himself, and the differences between him and 
Marlborough being notorious, his Grace’s enemies in the army 
and at home began to court Webb, and set him up against the 
all-grasping, domineering chief. And soon after the victory 
of Oudenarde, a glorious opportunity fell into General Webb’s 
way, which that gallant warrior did not neglect, and which 
gave him the means of immensely increasing his reputation at 
home. 

After Oudenarde, and against the counsels of Marlborough, 
it was said, the Prince of Savoy sat down before Lille, the 
capital of French Flanders, and commenced that siege, the 
most celebrated of our time, and almost as famous as the siege 
of Troy itself for the feats of valour performed in the assault 
and the defence. The enmity of the Prince of Savoy against 
the French King was a furious personal hate, quite unlike the 
calm hostility of our great English General, who was no more 
moved by the game of war than that of billiards, and pushed 
forward his squadrons, and drove his red battalions hither and 
thither, as calmly as he would combine a stroke or make a 
cannon with the balls. The game over (and he played it so as 
to be pretty sure to win it), not the least animosity against the 
other party remained in the breast of this consummate tactician. 
Whereas between the Prince of Savoy and the French it was 
guerre a mart. Beaten off in one quarter, as he had been in 


286 


The History of 

Toulon in the last year, he was back again on another frontier 
of France, assailing it with his indefatigable fury. When the 
Prince came to the army, the smouldering fires of war were 
lighted up, and burst out into a flame. Our phlegmatic Dutch 
allies were made to advance at a quick march — our calm Duke 
forced into action. The Prince was an army in himself against 
the French; the energy of his hatred, prodigious, indefati- 
gable — infectious over hundreds of thousands of men. The 
Emperor’s General was repaying, and with a vengeance, the 
slight the French King had put upon the fiery little Abbe of 
Savoy. Brilliant and famous as a leader himself, and beyond 
all measure daring and intrepid, and enabled to cope with 
almost the best of those famous men of war who commanded 
the armies of the French King, Eugene had a weapon, the 
equal of which could not be found in France since the cannon- 
shot of Sasbach laid low the noble Turenne, and could hurl 
Marlborough at the heads of the French host, and crush them 
as with a rock, under which all the gathered strength of their 
strongest captains must go down. 

The English Duke took little part in that vast siege of 
Lille, which the Imperial Generalissimo pursued with all his 
force and vigour, further than to cover the besieging lines 
from the Duke of Burgundy’s army, between which and the 
Imperialists our Duke lay. Once, when Prince Eugene was 
wounded, our Duke took his Highness’s place in the trenches ; 
but the siege was with the Imperialists, not with us. A 
division under Webb and Rantzau was detached into' Artois 
and Picardy upon the most painful and odious service that Mr 
Esmond ever saw in the course of his military life. The 
wretched towns of the defenceless provinces, whose young 
men had been drafted away into the French armies, which 
year after year the insatiable war devoured, were left at our 
mercy ; and our orders were to show them none. We found 
places garrisoned by invalids, and children and women ; poor 
as they were, and as the costs of this miserable war had 
made them, our commission was to rob these almost starving 
wretches — to tear the food out of their granaries, and strip 
them of their rags. ’Twas an expedition of rapine and murder 
we were sent on : our soldiers did deeds such as an honest 


Henry Esmond 287 

man must blush to remember. We brought back money and 
provisions in quantity to the Duke’s camp ; there had been no 
one to resist us, and yet who dares to tell with what murder 
and violence, with what brutal cruelty, outrage, insult, that 
ignoble booty had been ravished from the innocent and miser- 
able victims of the war ? 

Meanwhile, gallantly as the operations before Lille had 
been conducted, the Allies had made but little progress, and 
’twas said when we returned to the Duke of Marlborough’s 
camp, that the siege would never be brought to a satisfactory 
end, and that the Prince of Savoy would be forced to raise it. 
My Lord Marlborough gave this as his opinion openly ; those 
who mistrusted him, and Mr Esmond owns himself to be of 
the number, hinted that the Duke had his reasons why Lille 
should not be taken, and that he was paid to that end by the 
French King. If this was so, and I believe it. General Webb 
had now a remarkable opportunity of gratifying his hatred 
of the Commander-in-Chief, of balking that shameful avarice, 
which was one of the basest and most notorious qualities of 
the famous Duke, and of showing his own consummate skill 
as a commander. And when I consider all the circumstances 
preceding the event which will now be related, that my Lord 
Duke was actually offered certain millions of crowns provided 
that the siege of Lille should be raised ; that the Imperial 
army before it was without provisions and ammunition, and 
must have decamped but for the supplies that they received ; 
that the march of the convoy destined to relieve the siege 
was accurately known to the French; and that the force 
covering it was shamefully inadequate to that end, and 
by six times inferior to Count de la Mothe’s army, which 
was sent to intercept the convoy ; when ’tis certain that the 
Duke of Berwick, De la Mothe’s chief, was in constant cor- 
respondence with his uncle, the English Generalissimo : I 
believe on my conscience that ’twas my Lord Marlborough’s 
intention to prevent those supplies, of which the Prince of 
Savoy stood in absolute need, from ever reaching his High- 
ness ; that he meant to sacrifice the little army which covered 
this convoy, and to betray it as he had betrayed Tollemache 
at Brest; as he had betrayed every friend he had, to further 


288 


The History of 

his own schemes of avarice or ambition. But for the mira- 
culous victory which Esmond^s General won over an army six 
or seven times greater than his own, the siege of Lille must 
have been raised ; and it must be remembered that our gallant 
little force was under the command of a general whom Marl- 
borough hated, that he was furious with the conqueror, and 
tried by the most open and shameless injustice afterwards 
to rob him of the credit of his victory. 


Chapter XV 

General Webb wins the Battle of Wynendael 

By the besiegers and besieged of Lille, some of the most 
brilliant feats of valour were performed that ever illustrated 
any war. On the French side (whose gallantry was pro- 
digious, the skill and bravery of Marshal Boufflers actually 
eclipsing those of his conqueror, the Prince of Savoy) may 
be mentioned that daring action of Messieurs de Luxembourg 
and Tournefort, who, with a body of horse and dragoons, 
carried powder into the town, of which the besieged were in 
extreme want, each soldier bringing a bag with forty pounds 
of powder behind him ; with which perilous provision they 
engaged our own horse, faced the fire of the foot brought out 
to meet them : and though half of the men were blown up in 
the dreadful errand they rode on, a part of them got into the 
town with the succours of which the garrison was so much in 
want. A French officer. Monsieur du Bois, performed an 
act equally daring, and perfectly successful. The Duke’s 
great army lying at Helchin, and covering the siege, and it 
being necessary for M. de Vendosme to get news of the 
condition of the place. Captain du Bois performed his famous 
exploit : not only passing through the lines of the siege, but 
swimming afterwards no less than seven moats and ditches : 
and coming back the same way, swimming with his letters in 
his mouth. 

By these letters Monsieur de Bouffiers said that he could 
undertake to hold the place till October ; and that if one of 


Henry Esmond 289 

the convoys of the Allies could be intercepted, they must raise 
the siege altogether. 

Such a convoy as hath been said was now prepared at 
Ostend, and about to march for the siege ; and on the 27th 
September we (and the French too) had news that it was 
on its way. It was composed of 700 waggons, containing 
ammunition of all sorts, and was escorted out of Ostend by 
2000 infantry and 300 horse. At the same time M. de la 
Mothe quitted Bruges, having with him five-and-thirty 
battalions, and upwards of sixty squadrons and forty guns, 
in pursuit of the convoy. 

Major-General Webb had meanwhile made up a force of 
twenty battalions and three squadrons of dragoons at Turout, 
whence he moved to cover the convoy and pursue La Mothe : 
with whose advanced guard ours came up upon the great plain 
of Turout, and before the little wood and castle of Wynendael; 
behind which the convoy was marching. 

As soon as they came in sight of the enemy, our advanced 
troops were halted, with the wood behind them, and the rest 
of our force brought up as quickly as possible, our little body 
of horse being brought forward to the opening of the plain, 
as our General said, to amuse the enemy. When M. de la 
Mothe came up, he found us posted in two lines in front of the 
wood ; and formed his own army in battle facing ours, in eight 
lines, four of infantry in front, and dragoons and cavalry behind. 

The French began the action, as usual, with a cannonade 
which lasted three hours, when they made their attack, 
advancing in eight lines, four of foot and four of horse, 
upon the allied troops in the wood where we were posted. 
Their infantry behaved ill •, they were ordered to charge with 
the bayonet, but, instead, began to fire, and almost at the very 
first discharge from our men, broke and fled. The cavalry 
behaved better; with these alone, who were three or four 
times as numerous as our whole force. Monsieur de la Mothe 
might have won victory : but only two of our battalions were 
shaken in the least ; and these speedily rallied : nor could the 
repeated attacks of the French horse cause our troops to budge 
an inch from the position in the wood in which our General 
had placed them. 


T 


2go The History of 

After attacking for two hours, the French retired at night- 
fall, entirely foiled. With all the loss we had inflicted upon 
him, the enemy was still three times stronger than we : and it 
could not be supposed that our General could pursue M. de 
la Mothe, or do much more than hold our ground about the 
wood, from which the Frenchman had in vain attempted to 
dislodge us. La Mothe retired behind his forty guns, his 
cavalry protecting them better than it had been able to annoy 
us ; and meanwhile the convoy, which was of more importance 
than all our little force, and the safe passage of which we 
would have dropped to the last man to accomplish, marched 
away in perfect safety during the action, and joyfully reached 
the besieging camp before Lille. 

Major-General Cadogan, my Lord Duke’s Quartermaster- 
General (and between whom and Mr Webb there was no love 
lost), accompanied the convoy, and joined Mr Webb with a 
couple of hundred horse just as the battle was over, and the 
enemy in full retreat. He offered, readily enough, to charge 
with his horse upon the French as they fell back ; but his 
force was too weak to inflict any damage upon them ; and Mr 
Webb, commanding as Cadogan’s senior, thought enough was 
done in holding our ground before an enemy that might still 
have overwhelmed us had we engaged him in the open 
territory, and in securing the safe passage of the convoy. 
Accordingly, the horse brought up by Cadogan did not 
draw a sword ; and only prevented, by the good countenance 
they showed, any disposition the French might have had to 
renew the attack on us. And no attack coming, at nightfall 
General Cadogan drew off with his squadron, being bound 
for headquarters, the two Generals at parting grimly saluting 
each other. 

‘‘ He will be at Roncq time enough to lick my Lord Duke’s 
trenchers at supper,” says Mr Webb. 

Our own men lay out in the woods of Wynendael that 
night, and our General had his supper in the little castle 
there. 

“If I was Cadogan, I would have a peerage for this day’s 
work,” General Webb said ; “ and, Harry, thou shouldst have 
a regiment. Thou hast been reported in the last two actions; 


291 


Henry Esmond 

thou wert near killed in the first. I shall mention thee in my 
despatch to his Grace the Commander-in-Chief, and recom- 
mend thee to poor Dick Harwood’s vacant majority. Have 
you ever a hundred guineas to give Cardonnel ? Slip them 
into his hand to-morrow, when you go to headquarters with 
my report.” 

In this report the Major-General was good enough to 
I mention Captain Esmond’s name with particular favour ; and 
that gentleman carried the despatch to headquarters the next 
day, and was not a little pleased to bring back a letter by his 
Grace’s secretary, addressed to Lieutenant-General Webb. 
The Dutch officer despatched by Count Nassau Wouden- 
bourg, Vaelt-Mareschal Auverquerque’s son, brought back 
also a complimentary letter to his commander, who had 
seconded Mr Webb in the action with great valour and 
skill. 

Esmond, with a low bow and a smiling face, presented his 
despatch, and saluted Mr Webb as Lieutenant-General, as he 
gave it in. The gentlemen round about him — he was riding 
with his suite on the road to Menin as Esmond came up with 
him — gave a cheer, and he thanked them, and opened the 
: despatch with rather a flushed, eager face. 

He slapped it down on his boot in a rage after he had read 
it. “ ’Tis not even writ with his own hand. Read it out, 

; Esmond.” And Esmond read it out : — 

i “Sir, — Mr Cadogan is just now come in, and has acquainted 

j me with the success of the action you had yesterday in the 
i afternoon against the body of troops commanded by M. de la 
i Mothe, at Wynendael, which must be attributed chiefly to 
i your good conduct and resolution. You may be sure I shall 
do you justice at home, and be glad on all occasions to own 
the service you have done in securing this convoy. — Yours, 
&c., M.” 

“ Two lines by that d d Cardonnel, and no more, for 

I the taking of Lille — for beating five times our number — for 
an action as brilliant as the best he ever fought,” says poor 
Mr Webb. “ Lieutenant-General ! That’s not his doing. 


2g2 The History of 

I was the oldest major-general. By , I believe he had 

been better pleased if I had been beat.” 

The letter to the Dutch officer was in French, and longer 
and more complimentary than that to Mr Webb. 

‘‘ And this is the man,” he broke out, “ that’s gorged with 
gold — that’s covered with titles and honours that we won for 
him — and that grudges even a line of praise to a comrade in 
arms ! Hasn’t he enough ? Don’t we fight that he may roll 
in riches ? Well, well, wait for the Gazette, gentlemen. The 
Queen and the country will do us justice if his Grace denies 
it us.” There were tears of rage in the brave warrior’s eyes 
as he spoke ; and he dashed them off his face on to his glove. 
He shook his fist in the air. “ Oh, by the Lord ! ” says he, 
“ I know what I had rather have than a peerage ! ” 

‘‘ And what is that, sir ? ” some of them asked. 

“I had rather have a quarter of an hour with John 
Churchill, on a fair green field, and only a pair of rapiers 
between my shirt and his ” 

‘‘ Sir ! ” interposes one. 

“Tell him so ! I know that’s what you mean. I know 
every word goes to him that’s dropped from every general 
officer’s mouth. I don’t say he’s not brave. Curse him, he’s 
brave enough ; but we’ll wait for the Gazette, gentlemen. 
God save Her Majesty ! she’ll do us justice.” 

The Gazette did not come to us till a month afterwards ; 
when my General and his officers had the honour to dine 
with Prince Eugene in Lille •, his Highness being good 
enough to say that we had brought the provisions, and 
ought to share in the banquet. ’Twas a great banquet. 
His Grace of Marlborough was on his Highness’s right, and 
on his left the Mareschal de Boufflers, who had so bravely 
defended the place. The chief officers of either army were 
present ; and you may be sure Esmond’s General was splendid 
this day : his tall noble person and manly beauty of face made 
him remarkable anywhere ; he wore, for the first time, the 
star of the Order of Generosity, that His Prussian Majesty 
had sent to him for his victory. His Highness the Prince of 
Savoy called a toast to the conqueror of Wynendael. My 
Lord Duke drank it with rather a sickly smile. The aides- 


^93 


Henry Esmond 

de-camp were present ; and Harry Esmond and his dear 
young lord were together, as they always strove to be 
when duty would permit : they were over against the table 
where the generals were, and could see all that passed pretty 
well. Frank laughed at my Lord Duke’s glum face ; the 
affair of Wynendael, and the Captain-General’s conduct to 
Webb had been the talk of the whole army. When his 
Highness spoke, and gave “ Le vainqueur de Wynendael ; 
son armee et sa victoire,” adding, ‘‘ qui nous font diner a 
Lille aujourd’huy ” — there was a great cheer through the 
hall ; for Mr Webb’s bravery, generosity, and very weaknesses 
of character caused him to be beloved in the army. 

‘‘ Like Hector handsome, and like Paris brave ! ” whispers 
Frank Castlewood. “ A Venus, an elderly Venus, couldn’t 
refuse him a pippin. Stand up, Harry ! See, we are drinking 
the army of Wynendael. Ramillies is nothing to it. Huzzay ! 
huzzay ! ” 

At this very time, and just after our General had made his 
acknowledgment, some one brought in an English Gazette — 
and was passing it from hand to hand down the table. Officers 
were eager enough to read it : mothers and sisters at home 
must have sickened over it. There scarce came out a Gazette 
for six years that did not tell of some heroic death or some 
brilliant achievement. 

‘‘ Here it is — Action of Wynendael — here you are. General,” 
says Frank, seizing hold of the little dingy paper that soldiers 
love to read so ; and scrambling over from our bench, he 
went to where the General sat, who knew him, and had seen 
many a time at his table his laughing, handsome face, which 
everybody loved who saw. The generals in their great 
perukes made way for him. He handed the paper over 
General Dohna’s buff-coat to our General on the opposite 
side. 

He came hobbling back, and blushing at his feat : I 
thought he’d like it, Harry,” the young fellow whispered. 
“ Didn’t I like to read my name after Ramillies, in the London 

Gazette ? — Viscount Castlewood serving a volunteer I say, 

what’s youder ? ” 

Mr Webb, reading the Gazette y looked very strange — 


294 The History of 

slapped it down on the table — then sprang up in his place, 

and began, “ Will your Highness please to ” 

His Grace the Duke of Marlborough here jumped up too — 

“ There’s some mistake, my dear General Webb.” 

“ Your Grace had better rectify it,” says Mr Webb, hold- 
ing out the letter ; but he was five off his Grace the Prince 
Duke, who, besides, was higher than the General (being 
seated with the Prince of Savoy, the Electoral Prince of 
Hanover, and the envoys of Prussia and Denmark, under a 
baldaquin), and Webb could not reach him, tall as he was. 

“ Stay,” says he, with a smile, as if catching at some idea, | 
and then, with a perfect courtesy, drawing his sword, he ran | 
the Gazette through with the point, and said, “ Permit me to ! 
hand it to your Grace.” | 

The Duke looked very black. “ Take it,” says he, to his I 
Master of the Horse, who was waiting behind him. ' 

The Lieutenant-General made a very low bow, and retired 
and finished his glass. The Gazette in which Mr Cardonnel, 
the Duke’s secretary, gave an account of the victory of 
Wynendael, mentioned Mr Webb’s name, but gave the sole 
praise and conduct of the action to the Duke’s favourite, Mr j 
Cadogan. | 

There was no little talk and excitement occasioned by this i 
strange behaviour of General Webb, who had almost drawn 
a sword upon the Commander-in-Chief ; but the General, i 
after the first outbreak of his anger, mastered it outwardly ! 
altogether ; and, by his subsequent behaviour, had the satis- i 
faction of even more angering the Commander-in-Chief, than 
he could have done by any public exhibition of resentment. 

On returning to his quarters, and consulting with his chief 
adviser, Mr Esmond, who was now entirely in the General’s 
confidence, and treated by him as a friend, and almost a son, 
Mr Webb writ a letter to his Grace the Commander-in-Chief, 
in which he said : — 

“ Your Grace must be aware that the sudden perusal of 
the London Gazette^ in which your Grace’s secretary, Mr Car- 
donnel, hath mentioned Major-General Cadogan’s name as the 
officer commanding in the late action of Wynendael, must 


Henry Esmond 295 

have caused a feeling of anything but pleasure to the General 
who fought that action. 

“ Your Grace must be aware that Mr Cadogan was not 
even present at the battle, though he arrived with squadrons of 
horse at its cJose, and put himself under the command of his 
superior officer. And as the result of the battle of Wynen- 
dael, in which Lieutenant-General Webb had the good fortune 
to command, was the capture of Lille, the relief of Brussels, 
then invested by the enemy under the Elector of Bavaria, the 
restoration of the great cities of Ghent and Bruges, of which 
the enemy (by treason within the walls) had got possession in 
the previous year, Mr Webb cannot consent to forego the 
honours of such a success and service, for the benefit of Mr 
Cadogan, or any other person. 

As soon as the military operations of the year are over, 
Lieutenant-General Webb will request permission to leave the 
army, and return to his place in Parliament, where he gives 
notice to his Grace the Commander-in-Chief, that he shall lay 
his case before the House of Commons, the country, and Her 
Majesty the Queen. 

“ By his eagerness to rectify that false statement of the 
Gazette, which had been written by his Grace’s secretary, 
Mr Cardonnel, Mr Webb, not being able to reach his Grace 
the Commander-in-Chief on account of the gentlemen seated 
between them, placed the paper containing the false statement 
on his sword, so that it might more readily arrive in the hands 
of his Grace the Duke of Marlborough, who surely would 
wish to do justice to every officer of his army. 

‘‘ Mr Webb knows his duty too well to think of insubor- 
dination to his superior officer, or of using his sword in a 
campaign against any but the enemies of Her Majesty. He 
solicits permission to return to England immediately the 
military duties will petmit, and take with him to England 
Captain Esmond, of his regiment, who acted as his aide-de- 
camp, and was present during the entire action, and noted by 
his watch the time when Mr Cadogan arrived at its close.” 

The Commander-in-Chief could not but grant this per- 
ijnission, nor could he take notice of Webb’s letter, though it 


296 The History of 

was couched in terms the most insulting. Half the army 
believed that the cities of Ghent and Bruges were given up 
by a treason, which some in our army very well understood ; 
that the Commander-in-Chief would not have relieved Lille, 
if he could have helped himself ; that he would not have 
fought that year had not the Prince of Savoy forced him. 
When the battle once began, then, for his own renown, my 
Lord Marlborough would fight as no man in the world ever 
fought better ; and no bribe on earth could keep him from 
beating the enemy.* 

But the matter was taken up by the subordinates ; and half 
the army might have been by the ears, if the quarrel had not 
been stopped. General Cadogan sent an intimation to General 
Webb to say that he was ready if Webb liked, and would 
meet him. This was a kind of invitation our stout old General 
was always too ready to accept, and ’twas with great difficulty 
we got the General to reply that he had no quarrel with Mr 
Cadogan, who had behaved with perfect gallantry, but only 
with those at headquarters, who had belied him. Mr Car- 
donnel offered General Webb reparation ; Mr Webb said he 
had a cane at the service of Mr Cardonnel, and the only 
satisfaction he wanted from him was one he was not likely to 
get, namely, the truth. The officers in our staff of Webb’s 
and those in the immediate suite of the General, were ready 
to come to blows ; and hence arose the only affair in which 


* Our grandfather’s hatred of the Duke of Marlborough appears all through 
his account of these campaigns. He always persisted that the Duke was the 
greatest traitor and soldier history ever told of ; and declared that he took bribes 
on all hands during the war. My Lord Marquis (for so we may call him here, 
though he never went by any other name than Colonel Esmond) was in the habit 
of telling naany stories which he did not set down in his Memoirs, and which he 
had from his friend the Jesuit, who was not always correctly informed, and who 
persisted that Marlborough was looking for a bribe of two millions of crowns 
before the campaign of Ramillies. 

And our grandmother used to tell us children, that on his first presentation to 
my Lord Duke, the Duke turned his back upon my grandfather ; and said to the 
Duchess, who told my Lady Dowager at Chelsey, who afterwards told Colonel 
Esmond : “ Tom Esmond’s bastard has been to my levee: he has the hang-dog 
look of his rogue of a father ” — an expression which my grandfather never 
forgave. He was as constant in his dislikes as in his attachments ; and exceed- 
ingly partial to Webb, whose side he took against the more celebrated general, 
We have General Webb’s portrait now at Castlewood, Va, 


Henry Esmond 297 

Mr Esmond ever engaged as principal, and that was from a 
revengeful wish to wipe off an old injury. 

My Lord Mohun, who had a troop in Lord Macclesfield’s 
regiment of the Horse Guards, rode this campaign with the 
Duke. He had sunk by this time to the very worst reputa- 
tion ; he had had another fatal duel in Spain ; he had married, 
and forsaken his wife ; he was a gambler, a profligate, and de- 
bauchee. He joined just before Oudenarde ; and, as Esmond 
feared, as soon as Frank Castlewood heard of his arrival, 
Frank was for seeking him out, and killing him. The wound 
my Lord got at Oudenarde prevented their meeting, but that 
was nearly healed, and Mr Esmond trembled daily lest any 
chance should bring his boy and this known assassin together. 
They met at the mess-table of Handyside’s regiment at Lille ; 
the officer commanding not knowing of the feud between the 
two noblemen. 

Esmond had not seen the hateful handsome face of Mohun 
for nine years, since they had met on that fatal night in 
Leicester Field. It was degraded with crime and passion 
now ; it wore the anxious look of a man who has three deaths, 
and who knows how many hidden shames, and lusts, and 
crimes on his conscience. He bowed with a sickly low bow, 
and slunk away when our host presented us round to one 
another. Frank Castlewood had not known him till then, so 
changed was he. He knew the boy well enough. 

’Twas curious to look at the two — especially the young 
man, whose face flushed up when he heard the hated name 
of the other ; and who said in his bad French and his brave 
boyish voice, ‘‘ He had long been anxious to meet my Lord 
Mohun.” The other only bowed, and moved away from 
him. To do him justice, he wished to have no quarrel 
with the lad. 

Esmond put himself between them at table. “ D it,” 

says Frank, “ why do you put yourself in the place of a man 
who is above you in degree ? My Lord Mohun should walk 
after me. I want to sit by my Lord Mohun.” 

Esmond whispered to Lord Mohun that Frank was hurt in 
the leg at Oudenarde ; and besought the other to be quiet. 
Quiet enough he was for some time ; disregarding the many 


298 The History of 

taunts which young Castlewood flung at him, until after 
several healths, when my Lord Mohun got to be rather in 
liquor. 

“ Will you go away, my Lord ? ” Mr Esmond said to him, 
imploring him to quit the table. 

“ No, by G — says my Lord Mohun. “ I’ll not go away 
for any man ; ” he was quite flushed with wine by this time. 

The talk got round to the affairs of yesterday. Webb had 
offered to challenge the Commander-in-Chief : Webb had been 
ill-used : Webb was the bravest, handsomest, vainest man in 
the army. Lord Mohun did not know that Esmond was 
Webb’s aide-de-camp. He began to tell some stories against 
the General ; which, from t’other side of Esmond, young 
Castlewood contradicted. 

“ I can’t bear any more of this,” says my Lord Mohun. 

“ Nor can I, my Lord,” says Mr Esmond, starting up. 

The story my Lord Mohun has told respecting General 
Webb is false, gentlemen — false, I repeat,” and making a low 
bow to Lord Mohun, and without a single word more, 
Esmond got up and left the dining-room. These affairs 
were common enough among the military of those days. 
There was a garden behind the house, and all the party 
turned instantly into it ; and the two gentlemen’s coats 
were off and their points engaged within two minutes after 
Esmond’s words had been spoken. If Captain Esmond had 
put Mohun out of the world, as he might, a villain would 
have been punished and spared further villainies — but who 
is one man to punish another I declare upon my honour 
that my only thought was to prevent Lord Mohun from 
mischief with Frank, and the end of this meeting was, that 
after half-a-dozen passes my Lord went home with a hurt 
which prevented him from lifting his right arm for three 
months. 

“ Oh, Harry ! why didn’t you kill the villain .? ” young 
Castlewood asked. “ I can’t walk without a crutch : but I 
could have met him on horseback with sword and pistol.” 
But Harry Esmond said, ‘‘ ’Twas best to have no man’s life 
on one’s conscience, not even that villain’s.” And this affair, 
which did not occupy three minutes, being over, the gentlemen 


Henry Esmond 299 

went back to their wine, and my Lord Mohun to his quarters, 
where he was laid up with a fever which had spared mischief 
had it proved fatal. And very soon after this affair Harry 
Esmond and his General left the camp for London ; whither 
a certain reputation had preceded the Captain, for my Lady 
Castlewood of Chelsey received him as if he had been a con- 
quering hero. She gave a great dinner to Mr Webb, where 
the General’s chair was crowned with laurels ; and her Lady- 
ship called Esmond’s health in a toast, to which my kind 
General was graciously pleased to bear the strongest testi- 
mony : and took down a mob of at least forty coaches to cheer 
our General as he came out of the House of Commons, the 
day when he received the thanks of Parliament for his action. 
The mob huzza’d and applauded him, as well as the fine com- 
pany : it was splendid to see him waving his hat, and bowing, 
and laying his hand upon his Order of Generosity. He intro- 
duced Mr Esmond to Mr St John and the Right Honourable 
Robert Harley, Esquire, as he came out of the House walking 
between them ; and was pleased to make many flattering 
observations regarding Mr Esmond’s behaviour during the 
three last campaigns. 

Mr St John (who had the most winning presence of any man 
I ever saw, excepting always my peerless young Frank Castle- 
wood) said he had heard of Mr Esmond before from Captain 
Steele, and how he had helped Mr Addison to write his famous 
poem of the “ Campaign.” 

** ’Twas as great an achievement as the victory of Blenheim 
itself,” Mr Harley said, who was famous as a judge and patron 
of letters, and so, perhaps, it may be — though for my part 
I think there are twenty beautiful lines, but all the rest is 
commonplace, and Mr Addison’s hymn worth a thousand such 
poems. 

All the town was indignant at my Lord Duke’s unjust 
treatment of General Webb, and applauded the vote of 
thanks which the House of Commons gave to the General 
for his victory at Wynendael. ’Tis certain that the capture 
of Lille was the consequence of that lucky achievement, and 
the humiliation of the old French King, . who was said to 
suffer more at the loss of this great city, than from any of the 


300 


The History of 


former victories our troops had won over him. And, I think, 
no small part of Mr Webb’s exultation at his victory arose 
from the idea that Marlborough had been disappointed of a 
great bribe the French King had promised him, should the 
siege be raised. The very sum of money offered to him was 
mentioned by the Duke’s enemies ; and honest Mr Webb 
chuckled at the notion, not only of beating the French, but of 
beating Marlborough too, and intercepting a convoy of three 
millions of French crowns, that were on their way to the 
Generalissimo’s insatiable pockets. When the General’s lady 
went to the Queen’s drawing-room, all the Tory women 
crowded round her with congratulations, and made her a train 
greater than the Duchess of Marlborough’s own. Feasts were 
given to the General by all the chiefs of the Tory party, who 
vaunted him as the Duke’s equal in military skill ; and perhaps 
used the worthy soldier as their instrument, whilst he thought 
they were but acknowledging his merits as a commander. As 
the General’s aide-de-camp and favourite officer, Mr Esmond 
came in for a share of his chief’s popularity, and was presented 
to Her Majesty and advanced to the rank of Lieutenant- 
Colonel, at the request of his grateful chief. 

We may be sure there was one family in which any good 
fortune that happened to Esmond caused such a sincere pride 
and pleasure, that he, for his part, was thankful he could make 
them so happy. With these fond friends Blenheim and Oude- 
narde seemed to be mere trifling incidents of the war ; and 
Wynendael was its crowning victory. Esmond’s mistress 
never tired to hear accounts of the battle ; and I think 
General Webb’s lady grew jealous of her, for the General 
was for ever at Kensington, and talking on that delightful 
theme. As for his aide-de-camp, though, no doubt, Esmond’s 
own natural vanity was pleased at the little share of reputa- 
tion which his good fortune had won him, yet it was chiefly 
precious to him (he may say so, now that he hath long since 
outlived it) because it pleased his mistress, and, above all, 
because Beatrix valued it. 

As for the old Dowager of Chelsey, never was an old 
woman in all England more delighted nor more gracious than 
she, Esmond had his quarters in her Ladyship’s house, where 


301 


Henry Esmond 


the domestics were instructed to consider him as their master. 
She bade him give entertainments, of which she defrayed the 
charges, and was charmed w^hen his guests were carried away 
tipsy in their coaches. She must have his picture taken ; and 
accordingly he was painted by Mr Jervas, in his red coat, and 
, smiling upon a bombshell, which was bursting at the corner of 
; the piece. She vowed that unless he made a great match, she 
should never die easy, and was for ever bringing young ladies 
to Chelsey, with pretty faces and pretty fortunes, at the dis- 
posal of the Colonel. He smiled to think how times were 
altered with him, and of the early days in his father’s lifetime, 
when a trembling page he stood before her, with her Lady- 
ship’s basin and ewer, or crouched in her coach-step. The 
only fault she found with him was, that he was more sober 
than an Esmond ought to be ; and would neither be carried to 
bed by his valet, nor lose his heart to any beauty, whether of 
St James’s or Covent Garden. 

What is the meaning of fidelity in love, and whence the 
birth of it ? ’Tis a state of mind that men fall into, and de- 
pending on the man rather than the woman. We love being in 
love, that’s the truth on’t. If we had not met Joan, we should 
have met Kate, and adored her. We know our mistresses 
i are no better than many other women, nor no prettier, nor 
no wiser, nor no wittier. ’Tis not for these reasons we love a 
1 woman, or for any special quality or charm I know of ; we 
, might as well demand that a lady should be the tallest woman 
in the world, like the Shropshire giantess,* as that she should 
be a paragon in any other character, before we began to love 
‘ her. Esmond’s mistress had a thousand faults beside her 
; charms ; he knew both perfectly well ! She was imperious, 

: she was light-minded, she was flighty, she was false, she had 
no reverence in her character ; she was in everything, even in 
I beauty, the contrast of her mother, who was the most devoted 
! and the least selfish of women. Well, from the very first 
I moment he saw her on the stairs at Walcote, Esmond knew he 
I loved Beatrix. There might be better women — he wanted that 

i one. He cared for none other. Was it because she was glori- 

) 

1 * ’Tis not thus tvoman loves : Col. E. hath owned to this folly for a score of 

I domett besides. — R. 


302 The History of 

ously beautiful ? Beautiful as she was, he had heard people 
say a score of times in their company that Beatrix’s mother 
looked as young, and was the handsomer of the two. Why 
did her voice thrill in his ear so ? She could not sing near 
so well as Nicolini or Mrs Tofts ; nay, she sang out of tune, 
and yet he liked to hear her better than St Cecilia. She had 
not a finer complexion than Mrs Steele (Dick’s wife, whom he 
had now got, and who ruled poor Dick with a rod of pickle), 
and yet to see her dazzled Esmond ; he would shut his eyes, 
and the thought of her dazzled him all the same. She was 
brilliant and lively in talk, but not so incomparably witty as 
her mother, who, when she was cheerful, said the finest 
things ; but yet to hear her, and to be with her, was Esmond’s 
greatest pleasure. Days passed away between him and these 
ladies, he scarce knew how. He poured his heart out to 
them, so as he never could in any other company, where he 
hath generally passed for being moody, or supercilious and 
silent. This society* was more delightful than that of the 
greatest wits to him. May Heaven pardon him the lies he 
told the Dowager at Chelsey in order to get a pretext for 
going away to Kensington : the business at the Ordnance 
which he invented ; the interviews with his General, the 
courts and statesmen’s levees which he dMt frequent, and 
described ; who wore a new suit on Sunday at St James’s 
or at the Queen’s birthday ; how many coaches filled the 
street at Mr Harley’s levee; how many bottles he had had the 
honour to drink over-night with Mr St John at the “ Cocoa- 
Tree,” or at the “ Garter ” with Mr Walpole and Mr Steele. 

Mistress Beatrix Esmond had been a dozen times on the 
point of making great matches, so the Court scandal said ; 
but for his part Esmond never would believe the stories 
against her ; and came back, after three years’ absence from 
her, not so frantic as he had been perhaps, but still hungering 
after her and no other ; still hopeful, still kneeling, with his 
heart in his hand for the young lady to take. We were now 
got to 1709* She was near twenty-two years old, and three 
years at Court and without a husband. 

* And, indeed, so was his to them, a thousand thousand times more charm- 
ing, for where was his equal ? — R. 


Henry Esmond 303 

‘‘ ’Tis not for want of being asked,” Lady Castlewood said, 
looking into Esmond’s heart, as she could, with that per- 
ceptiveness affection gives. ‘‘ But she will make no mean 
match, Harry ; she will not marry as I would have her ; the 
person whom I should like to call my son, and Henry Esmond 
knows who that is, is best served by my not pressing his 
claim. Beatrix is so wilful, that what I would urge on her, 
she would be sure to resist. The man who would marry her 
I will not be happy with her, unless he be a great person, and 
can put her in a great position. Beatrix loves admiration 
more than love ; and longs, beyond all things, for command. 
Why should a mother speak so of her child? You are my 
I son, too, Harry. You should know the truth about your 
sister. I thought you might cure yourself of your passion,” 
my Lady added fondly. Other people can cure themselves 
of that folly, you know. But I see you are still as infatuated 
as ever. When we read your name in the Gazette, I pleaded 
for you, my poor boy. Poor boy, indeed ! You are growing 
i a grave old gentleman now, and I am an old woman. She 

I likes your fame well enough, and she likes your person. She 
says you have wit, and fire, and good-breeding, and are more 
}. natural than the fine gentlemen of the Court. But this is not 
[ enough. She wants a commander-in-chief, and not a colonel. 

* Were a duke to ask her, she would leave an earl whom she 

I had promised. I told you so before. I know not how my 
poor girl is so worldly.” 

‘‘Well,” says Esmond, ‘‘a man can but give his best and 
■ his all. She has that from me. What little reputation I have 
i won, I swear I cared for it because I thought Beatrix would 
. be pleased with it. What care I to be a colonel or a general ? 

’ Think you ’twill matter a few score years hence, what our 
i foolish honours to-day are ? I would have had a little fame, 

: that she might wear it in her hat. If I had anything better, I 
» would endow her with it. If she wants my life, I would give 
i it her. If she marries another, I will say God bless him. I 
! make no boast, nor no complaint. I think my fidelity is folly, 
] perhaps. But so it is. I cannot help myself. I love her. 
' You are a thousand times better : the fondest, the fairest, the 
; dearest of women. Sure, my dear lady, I see all Beatrix’s 


304 The History of 

faults as well as you do. But she is my fate. ’Tis endurable. 
I shall not die for not having her. I think I should be 
no happier if I won her. Que voulez-vous ? as my Lady 
of Chelsey would say. Je Taime.” 

‘‘ I wish she would have you,” said Harry’s fond mistress, 
giving a hand to him. He kissed the fair hand (’twas the 
prettiest dimpled little hand in the world, and my Lady Castle- 
wood, though now almost forty years old, did not look to be 
within ten years of her age). He kissed and kept her fair 
hand as they talked together. 

“ Why,” says he, “ should she hear me ? She knows what 
I would say. Far or near, she knows I’m her slave. I have 
sold myself for nothing, it may be. Well, ’tis the price I 
choose to take. I am worth nothing, or I am worth all.” 

“ You are such a treasure,” Esmond’s mistress was pleased 
to say, “ that the woman who has your love, shouldn’t change 
it away against a kingdom, I think. I am a country-bred 
woman, and cannot say but the ambitions of the town seem 
mean to me. I never was awe-stricken by my Lady Duchess’s 
rank and finery, or afraid,” she added, with a sly laugh, “ of 
anything but her temper. I hear of Court ladies who pine 
because Her Majesty looks cold on them ; and great noble- 
men who would give a limb that they might wear a garter on 
the other. This worldiness, which I can’t comprehend, was 
born with Beatrix, who, on the first day of her waiting, was a 
perfect courtier. We are like sisters, and she the elder sister, 
somehow. She tells me I have a mean spirit. I laugh, and say 
she adores a coach-and-six. I cannot reason her out of her 
ambition. ’Tis natural to her, as to me to love quiet, and be 
indifferent about rank and riches. What are they, Harry? 
and for how long do they last ? Our home is not here.” 
She smiled as she spoke, and looked like an angel that was 
only on earth on a visit. “ Our home is where the just are, 
and where our sins and sorrows enter not. My father used 
to rebuke me, and say that I was too hopeful about heaven. 
But I cannot help my nature, and grow obstinate as I grow to 
be an old woman ; and as I love my children so, sure our 
Father loves us with a thousand and a thousand times greater 
love. It must be that we shall meet yonder, and be happy. 


Henry Esmond 305 

Yes, you — and my children, and my dear lord. Do you know, 
Harry, since his death, it has always seemed to me as if his 
love came back to me, and that we are parted no more. Per- 
haps he is here now, Harry — I think he is. Forgiven I am 
sure he is ; even Mr Atterbury absolved him, and he died 
forgiving. Oh, what a noble heart he had ! How generous 
he was ! I was but fifteen and a child when he married me. 
How good he was to stoop to me ! He was always good to 
i the poor and humble.” She stopped, then presently, with a 
peculiar expression, as if her eyes were looking into heaven, 
and saw my Lord there, she smiled, and gave a little laugh. 
“ I laugh to see you, sir,” she says ; “ when you come, it seems 
as if you never were away.” One may put her words down, 
and remember them, but how describe her sweet tones, sweeter 
I than music ! 

1 My young lord did not come home at the end of the cam- 
j paign, and wrote that he was kept at Bruxelles on military 
I duty. Indeed, I believe he was engaged in laying siege to a 
; certain lady, who was of the suite of Madame de Soissons, the 
I Prince of Savoy’s mother, who was just dead, and who, like 
the Flemish fortresses, was taken and retaken a great number 
of times during the war, and occupied by French, English, 
and Imperialists. Of course, Mr Esmond did not think fit to 
enlighten Lady Castlewood regarding the young scapegrace’s 
‘ doings ; nor had he said a word about the affair with Lord 
Mohun, knowing how abhorrent that man’s name was to his 
mistress. Frank did not waste much time or money on pen 
and ink ; and, when Harry came home with his General, only 
writ two lines to his mother, to say his wound in the leg was 
almost healed, that he would keep his coming of age next 
year — that the duty aforesaid would keep him at Bruxelles, 
i and that Cousin Harry would tell all the news. 

But from Bruxelles, knowing how the Lady Castlewood 
always liked to have a letter about the famous 29th of Decem- 
ber, my Lord writ her a long and full one, and in this he must 
have described the affair with Mohun ; for when Mr Esmond 
came to visit his mistress one day, early in the new year, to 
I his great wonderment, she and her daughter both came up and 
j saluted him, and after them the Dowager of Chelsey, too, 

V 


306 The History of 

whose chairman had just brought her Ladyship from her village 
to Kensington across the fields. After this honour, I say, from 
the two ladies of Castlewood, the Dowager came forward in 
great state, with her grand tall head-dress of King James’s 
reign, that she never forsook, and said, ‘‘ Cousin Henry, all 
our family have met ; and we thank you. Cousin, for your 
noble conduct towards the head of our house.” And pointing 
to her blushing cheek, she made Mr Esmond aware that he 
was to enjoy the rapture of an embrace there. Having saluted 
one cheek, she turned to him the other. Cousin Harry,” 
said both the other ladies, in a little chorus, ‘‘ we thank you 
for your noble conduct ; ” and then Harry became aware that 
the story of the Lille affair had come to his kinswomen’s ears. 
It pleased him to hear them all saluting him as one of their 
family. 

The tables of the dining-room were laid for a great enter- 
tainment ; and the ladies were in gala dresses — my Lady of 
Chelsey in her highest tour, my Lady Viscountess out of 
black, and looking fair and happy a ravir ; and the Maid of 
Honour attired with that splendour which naturally distin- 
guished her, and wearing on her beautiful breast the French 
officer’s star, which Frank had sent home after Ramillies. 

You see, ’tis a gala day with us,” says she, glancing down 
to the star complacently, ‘‘ and we have our orders on. Does 
not mamma look charming ? ’Twas I dressed her ? ” Indeed, 
Esmond’s dear mistress, blushing as he looked at her, with 
her beautiful fair hair, and an elegant dress according to the 
mode, appeared to have the shape and complexion of a girl of 
twenty. 

On the table was a fine sword, with a red velvet scabbard, 
and a beautiful chased silver handle, with a blue riband for a 
sword-knot. “ What is this ? ” says the Captain, going up to 
look at this pretty piece. 

Mrs Beatrix advanced towards it. ‘‘Kneel down,” says 
she : “ we dub you our knight with this ” — and she waved 
the sword over his head. “ My Lady Dowager hath given 
the sword ; and I give the riband, and mamma hath sewn on 
the fringe.” 

“ Put the sword on him, Beatrix,” says her mother. “You 


Henry Esmond 307 

are our knight, Harry — our true knight. Take a mother’s 
thanks and prayers for defending her son, my dear, dear 
friend.” She could say no more, and even the Dowager was 
affected *, for a couple of rebellious tears made sad marks down 
those wrinkled old roses which Esmond had just been allowed 
to salute. 

“ We had a letter from dearest Frank,” his mother said, 
‘‘ three days since, whilst you were on your visit to your 
friend Captain Steele, at Hampton. He told us all that you 
had done, and how nobly you had put yourself between him 
and that — that wretch.” 

‘‘ And I adopt you from this day,” says the Dowager ; “ and 
I wish I was richer, for your sake, son Esmond,” she added 
with a wave of her hand ; and as Mr Esmond dutifully went 
down on his knee before her Ladyship, she cast her eyes up to 
the ceiling (the gilt chandelier, and the twelve wax-candles in 
it, for the party was numerous), and invoked a blessing from 
that quarter upon the newly adopted son. 

“Dear Frank,” says the other Viscountess, “how fond he 
is of his military profession ! He is studying fortification very 
hard. I wish he were here. We shall keep his coming of 
age at Castlewood next year.” 

“ If the campaign permit us,” says Mr Esmond. 

“ I am never afraid when he is with you,” cries the boy’s 
mother. “ I am sure my Henry will always defend him.” 

“ But there will be a peace before next year ; we know it 
for certain,” cries the Maid of Honour. “ Lord Marlborough 
will be dismissed, and that horrible Duchess turned out of all 
her places. Her Majesty won’t speak to her now. Did you 
see her at Bushy, Harry ? She is furious, and she ranges 
about the Park like a lioness, and tears people’s eyes 
out.” 

“ And the Princess Anne will send for somebody,” says my 
Lady of Chelsey, taking out her medal and kissing it. 

“ Did you see the King at Oudenarde, Harry ? ” his mistress 
asked. She was a staunch Jacobite, and would no more have 
thought of denying her King than her God. 

“ I saw the young Hanoverian only,” Harry said. “ The 
I Chevalier de St George ” 


3o 8 The History of 

“ The King, sir, the King ! ” said the ladies and Miss 
Beatrix ; and she clapped her pretty hands, and cried, “ Vive 
le Roy ! ” 

By this time there came a thundering knock, that drove in 
the doors of the house almost. It was three o’clock, and the. 
company were arriving ; and presently the servant announced 
Captain Steele and his lady. 

Captain and Mrs Steele, who were the first to arrive, had 
driven to Kensington from their country house, the Hovel at 
Hampton Wick. “ Not from our mansion in Bloomsbury 
Square,” as Mrs Steele took care to inform the ladies. Indeed, 
Harry had ridden away from Hampton that very morning, 
leaving the couple by the ears ; for from the chamber where 
he lay, in a bed that was none of the cleanest, and kept awake 
by the company which he had in his own bed, and the quarrel 
which was going on in the next room, he could hear both night 
and morning the curtain lecture which Mrs Steele was in the 
habit of administering to poor Dick. 

At night it did not matter so much for the culprit ; Dick 
was fuddled, and when in that way no scolding could interrupt 
his benevolence. Mr Esniond could hear him coaxing and 
speaking in that maudlin manner, which punch and claret pro- 
duce, to his beloved Prue, and beseeching her to remember 
that there was a distiwisht officer ithe rex roob, who would over- 
hear her. She went on, nevertheless, calling him a drunken 
wretch, and was only interrupted in her harangues by the 
Captain’s snoring. 

In the morning, the unhappy victim awoke to a headache 
and consciousness, and the dialogue of the night was resumed. 
“ Why do you bring captains home to dinner when there’s 
not a guinea in the house ? How am I to give dinners when 
you leave me without a shilling ? How am I to go trapesing 
to Kensington in my yellow satin sack before all the fine com- 
pany ? I’ve nothing fit to put on ; I never have : ” and so the 
dispute went on — Mr Esmond interrupting the talk when it 
seemed to be growing too intimate by blowing his nose as 
loudly as ever he could, at the sound of which trumpet there 
came a lull. But Dick was charming, though his wife was 
odious, and ’twas to give Mr Steele pleasure that the ladies of 


Henry Esmond 309 

Castlewood, who were ladies of no small fashion, invited Mrs 
Steele. 

Besides the Captain and his lady there was a great and 
notable assemblage of company : my Lady of Chelsey having 
sent her lacqueys and liveries to aid the modest attendance at 
Kensington. There was Lieutenant-General Webb, Harry’s 
kind patron, of whom the Dowager took possession, and who 
resplended in velvet and gold lace ; there was Harry’s new 
acquaintance, the Right Honourable Henry St John, Esquire, 
the General’s kinsman, who was charmed with the Lady 
Castlewood, even more than with her daughter ; there was 
one of the greatest noblemen in the kingdom, the Scots Duke 
of Hamilton, just created Duke of Brandon in England ; and 
two other noble Lords of the Tory party, my Lord Ashburn- 
ham, and another I have forgot ; and for ladies, her Grace the 
Duchess of Ormond and her daughters, the Lady Mary and 
the Lady Betty, the former one of Mistress Beatrix’s colleagues 
in waiting on the Queen. 

‘‘ What a party of Tories ! ” whispered Captain Steele to 
Esmond, as we were assembled in the parlour before dinner. 
Indeed, all the company present, save Steele, were of that 
faction. 

Mr St John made his special compliments to Mrs Steele, 
and so charmed her that she declared she would have Steele a 
Tory too. 

‘‘ Or will you have me a Whig ?” says Mr St John. “ I 
think, madam, you could convert a man to anything.” 

“ If Mr St John ever comes to Bloomsbury Square I will 
teach him what I know,” says Mrs Steele, dropping her hand- 
some eyes. “ Do you know Bloomsbury Square ? ” 

“ Do I know the Mall ? Do I know the Opera Do I 
know the reigning toast ? Why, Bloomsbury is the very 
height of the mode,” says Mr St John. “ ’Tis rus in urhe. 
You have gardens all the way to Hampstead, and palaces 
round about you — Southampton House and Montague House.” 

“ Where you wretches go and fight duels,” cried Mrs 
Steele. 

“ Of which the ladies are the cause ! ” says her entertainer. 
‘‘ Madam, is Dick a good swordsman How charming the 


310 


The History of 

Tatler is ! We all recognised your portrait in the 49th 
number, and I have been dying to know you ever since I 
read it. ‘ Aspasia must be allowed to be the first of the 
beauteous order of love.’ Doth not the passage run so ? 
‘ In this accomplished lady love is the constant effect, though 
it is never the design; yet though her mien carries much more 
invitation than command, to behold her is an immediate check 
to loose behaviour, and to love her is a liberal education.’ ” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” says Mrs Steele, who did not seem to 
understand a word of what the gentleman was saying. 

“ Who could fail to be accomplished under such a 
mistress ? ” says Mr St John, still gallant and bowing. 

“ Mistress ! upon my word, sir ! ” cries the lady. ‘‘ If you 
mean me, sir, I would have you know that I am the Captain’s 
wife.” 

“ Sure we all know it,” answers Mr St John, keeping his 
countenance very gravely ; and Steele broke in saying, 
“’Twas not about Mrs Steele I writ that paper — though I 
am sure she is worthy of any compliment I can pay her — but 
of the Lady Elizabeth Hastings.” 

‘‘I hear Mr Addison is equally famous as a wit and a 
poet,” says Mr St John. “ Is it true that his hand is to be 
found in your Tatler, Mr Steele I ” 

“Whether ’tis the sublime or the humorous, no man can 
come near him,” cries Steele. 

“ A fig, Dick, for your Mr Addison,” cries out his lady : 
“ a gentleman who gives himself such airs and holds his head 
so high now. I hope your Ladyship thinks as I do ; I can’t 
bear those very fair men with white eyelashes — a black man 
for me.” (All the black men at table applauded, and made 
Mrs Steele a bow for this compliment.) “ As for this Mr 
Addison,” she went on, “ he comes to dine with the Captain 
sometimes, never says a word to me, and then they walk 
upstairs, both tipsy, to a dish of tea. I remember your Mr 
Addison when he had but one coat to his back, and that with 
a patch at the elbow.” 

“ Indeed — a patch at the elbow ! You interest me,” says 
Mr St John. “ ’Tis charming to hear of one man of letters 
from the charming wife of another.” 


Henry Esmond 3 1 1 

“ La, I could tell you ever so much about ’em,” continues 
the voluble lady. What do you think the Captain has got 
now ? — a little hunchback fellow — a little hop-o’-my-thumb 
creature that he calls a poet — a little Popish brat ! ” 

“ Hush ! there are two in the room,” whispers her com- 
panion. 

“Well, I call him Popish because his name is Pope,” says 
the lady. “’Tis only my joking way. And this little dwarf 
of a fellow has wrote a pastoral poem — all about shepherds 
and shepherdesses, you know.” 

“ A shepherd should have a little crook,” says my mistress, 
laughing from her end of the table ; on which Mrs Steele 
said, “ She did not know, but the Captain brought home this 
queer little creature when she was in bed with her first boy, 
and it was a mercy he had come no sooner ; and Dick raved 
about his genus, and was always raving about some nonsense 
or other.” 

“Which of the Tatlers do you prefer, Mrs Steele?” asked 
Mr St John. 

“ I never read but one, and think it all a pack of rubbish, 
sir,” says the lady. “Such stuff about Bickerstaffe, and 
Distaff, and Quarterstaff, as it all is ! There’s the Captain 
going on still with the Burgundy — I know he’ll be tipsy 
before he stops — Captain Steele ! ” 

“ I drink to your eyes, my dear,” says the Captain, who 
, seemed to think his wife charming, and to receive as genuine 
' all the satiric compliments which Mr St John paid her. 

All this while the Maid of Honour had been trying to get 
f Mr Esmond to talk, and no doubt voted him a dull fellow. 
For, by some mistake, just as he was going to pop into the 
vacant place, he was placed far away from Beatrix’s chair, 
who sat between his Grace and my Lord Ashburnham, and 
shrugged her lovely white shoulders, and cast a look as if to 
say, “ Pity me,” to her cousin. My Lord Duke and his young 
I neighbour were presently in a very animated and close conver- 
I sation. Mrs Beatrix could no more help using her eyes than 
the sun can help shining, and setting those it shines on 
a-burning. By the time the first course was done the dinner 
seemed long to Esmond ; by the time the soup came he 


312 The History of 

fancied they must have been hours at table ; and as for the 
sweets and jellies he thought they never would be done. 

At length the ladies rose, Beatrix throwing a Parthian 
glance at her duke as she retreated ; a fresh bottle and glasses 
were fetched, and toasts were called. Mr St John asked his 
Grace the Duke of Hamilton and the company to drink to the 
health of his Grace the Duke of Brandon. Another lord gave 
General Webb’s health, “ and may he get the command the 
bravest officer in the world deserves.” Mr Webb thanked 
the company, complimented his aide-de-camp, and fought his 
famous battle over again. 

** II est fatiguant,” whispers Mr St John, ‘‘ avec sa trompette 
de Wynendael.” 

Captain Steele, who was not of our side, loyally gave the 
health of the Duke of Marlborough, the greatest General of 
the age. 

I drink to the greatest General with all my heart,” says 
Mr Webb ; “ there can be no gainsaying that character of 
him. My glass goes to the General, and not to the Duke, 
Mr Steele.” And the stout old gentleman emptied his 
bumper ; to which Dick replied by filling and emptying a 
pair of brimmers, one for the General and one for the 
Duke. 

And now his Grace of Hamilton, rising up with flashing 
eyes (we had all been drinking pretty freely), proposed a 
toast to the lovely, to the incomparable Mrs Beatrix Esmond ; 
we all drank it with cheers, and my Lord Ashburnham 
especially, with a shout of enthusiasm. 

“ What a pity there is a Duchess of Hamilton ! ” whispers 
St John, who drank more wine and yet was more steady than 
most of the others, and we entered the drawing-room where 
the ladies were at their tea. As for poor Dick, we were 
obliged to leave him alone at the dining-table, where he was 
hiccupping out the lines from the ‘‘ Campaign,” in which the 
greatest poet had celebrated the greatest general in the world; 
and Harry Esmond found him, half-an-hour afterwards, in a 
more advanced stage of liquor, and weeping about the treachery 
of Tom Boxer. 

The drawing-room was all dark to poor Harry, in spite of 


Henry Esmond 3 1 3 

the grand illumination. Beatrix scarce spoke to him. When 
my Lord Duke went away, she practised upon the next in 
rank, and plied my young Lord Ashburnham with all the fire 
of her eyes and the fascinations of her wit. Most of the party 
were set to cards, and Mr St John, after yawning in the face 
of Mrs Steele, whom he did not care to pursue any more ; and 
talking in his most brilliant, animated way to Lady Castlewood, 
whom he pronounced to be beautiful, of a far higher order of 
beauty than her daughter, presently took his leave, and went 
his way. The rest of the company speedily followed, my 
Lord Ashburnham the last, throwing fiery glances at the 
smiling young temptress, who had bewitched more hearts 
than his in her thrall. 

No doubt as a kinsman of the house, Mr Esmond thought 
fit to be the last of all in it ; he remained after the coaches 
had rolled away — after his dowager aunt’s chair and flam- 
beaux had marched off in the darkness towards Chelsey, and 
the townspeople had gone to bed, who had been drawn into 
the square to gape at the unusual assemblage of chairs and 
chariots, lacqueys and torchmen. The poor mean wretch 
lingered yet for a few minutes, to see whether the girl would 
vouchsafe him a smile, or a parting word of consolation. But 
her enthusiasm of the morning was quite died out, or she 
chose to be in a different mood. She fell to joking about the 
dowdy appearance of Lady Betty, and mimicked the vulgarity 
of Mrs Steele j and then she put up her little hand to 
her mouth and yawned, lighted a taper, and shrugged her 
shoulders, and dropping Mr Esmond a saucy curtsey, sailed off 
to bed. 

“The day began so well, Henry, that I had hoped it might 
have ended better,” was all the consolation that poor Esmond’s 
fond mistress could give him ; and as he trudged home 
through the dark alone, he thought with bitter rage in his 
heart, and a feeling of almost revolt against the sacrifice he 
had made : — “ She would have me,” thought he, “ had I but 
a name to give her. But for my promise to her father, I 
might have my rank and my mistress too.” 

I suppose a man’s vanity is stronger than any other passion 
in him ; for I blush, even now, as I recall the humiliation of 


314 The History of 

those distant days, the memory of which still smarts, though 
the fever of balked desire has passed away more than a score 
of years ago. When the writer’s descendants come to read 
this Memoir, I wonder will they have lived to experience 
a similar defeat and shame ? Will they ever have knelt to 
a woman, who has listened to them, and played with them, 
and laughed with them — who, beckoning them with lures 
and caresses, and with Yes smiling from her eyes, has tricked 
them on to their knees, and turned her back and left them ? 
All this shame Mr Esmond had to undergo ; and he submitted, 
and revolted, and presently came crouching back for more. 

After this feste, my young Lord Ashburnham’s coach was 
for ever rolling in and out of Kensington Square ; his lady- 
mother came to visit Esmond’s mistress, and at every assembly 
in the town, wherever the Maid of Honour made her appear- 
ance, you might be pretty sure to see the young gentleman 
in a new suit every week, and decked out in all the finery 
that his tailor or embroiderer could furnish for him. My 
Lord was for ever paying Mr Esmond compliments ; bidding 
him to dinner, offering him horses to ride, and giving him a 
thousand uncouth marks of respect and goodwill. At last, 
one night at the coffee-house, whither my Lord came con- 
siderably flushed and excited with drink, he rushes up to Mr 
Esmond, and cries out, “ Give me joy, my dearest Colonel : 
I am the happiest of men.” 

“ The happiest of men needs no dearest Colonel to give 
him joy,” says Mr Esmond. “ What is the cause of this 
supreme felicity ? ” 

“Haven’t you heard?” says he. “Don’t you know? I 
thought the family told you everything : the adorable Beatrix 
hath promised to be mine.” 

“ What ! ” cries out Mr Esmond, who had spent happy 
hours with Beatrix that very morning — had writ verses for 
her, that she had sung at the harpsichord. 

“ Yes,” says he ; “I waited on her to-day. I saw you 
walking towards Knightsbridge as I passed in my coach ; and 
she looked so lovely, and spoke so kind, that I couldn’t help 
going down on my knees, and — and — sure I am the happiest 
of men in all the world ; and I’m very young *, but she says I 


Henry Esmond 315 

shall get older : and you know I shall be of age in four 
months ; and there’s very little difference between us ; and 
I’m so happy. I should like to treat the company to some- 
thing. Let us have a bottle — a dozen bottles — and drink the 
health of the finest woman in England.” 

Esmond left the young lord tossing off bumper after 
bumper, and strolled away to Kensington to ask whether 
the news was true. ’Twas only too sure : his mistress’ sad, 
compassionate face told him the story; and then she related 
what particulars of it she knew, and how my young lord 
had made his offer, half-an-hour after Esmond went away 
that morning, and in the very room where the song lay yet 
on the harpsichord, which Esmond had writ, and they had 
sung together. 


Book III. 


Containing the End of Mr Esmond's Adventures 
in England 


Chapter I 

I come to an End of my Battles and Bruises 

That feverish desire to gain a little reputation which Esmond 
had had, left him now perhaps that he had attained some 
portion of his wish, and the great motive of his ambition was 
over. His desire for military honour was that it might raise 
him in Beatrix’s eyes. ’Twas, next to nobility and wealth, 
the only kind of rank she valued. It was the stake quickest 
won or lost too ; for law is a very long game that requires a 
life to practise ; and to be distinguished in letters or the 
Church would not have forwarded the poor gentleman’s plans 
in the least. So he had no suit to play but the red one, and 
he played it ; and this, in truth, was the reason of his speedy 
promotion ; for he exposed himself more than most gentlemen 
do, and risked more to win more. Is he the only man that 
hath set his life against a stake which may be not worth the 
winning ? Another risks his life (and his honour, too, some- 
times) against a bundle of bank-notes, or a yard of blue riband, 
or a seat in Parliament ; and some for the mere pleasure and 
excitement of the sport ; as a field of a hundred huntsmen will 
do, each out-bawling and out-galloping the other at the tail 
of a dirty fox, that is to be the prize of the foremost happy 
conqueror. 

When he heard this news of Beatrix’s engagement in 
marriage. Colonel Esmond knocked under to his fate, and 
resolved to surrender his sword, that could win him nothing 

316 


3^7 


Henry Esmond 

I now he cared for ; and in this dismal frame of mind he de- 
I termined to retire from the regiment, to the great delight of 
: the Captain next in rank to him, who happened to be a young 
j gentleman of good fortune, who eagerly paid Mr Esmond a 
j thousand guineas for his majority in Webb’s regiment, and 
i was knocked on the head the next campaign. Perhaps 
I Esmond would not have been sorry to share his fate ; he 
i was more the Knight of the Woeful Countenance than ever 
I he had been. His moodiness must have made him perfectly 
I odious to his friends under the tents, who like a jolly fellow, 
and laugh at a melancholy warrior always sighing after Dulcinea 
at home. 

Both the ladies of Castlewood approved of Mr Esmond 
quitting the army, and his kind General coincided in his wish 
I of retirement and helped in the transfer of his commission, 
which brought a pretty sum into his pocket. But when the 
Commander-in-Chief came home, and was forced, in spite of 
himself, to appoint Lieutenant-General Webb to the command 
of a division of the army in Flanders, the Lieutenant-General 
prayed Colonel Esmond so urgently to be his aide-de-camp 
and military secretary, that Esmond could not resist his kind 
patron’s entreaties, and again took the field, not attached to 
any regiment but under Webb’s orders. What must have 
; been the continued agonies of fears * and apprehensions which 
j racked the gentle breasts of wives and matrons in those 
dreadful days, when every Gazette brought accounts of deaths 
and battles, and when, the present anxiety over, and the 
beloved person escaped, the doubt still remained that a battle 
might be fought, possibly, of which the next Flanders letter 
would bring the account*, so they, the poor tender creatures, had 
to go on sickening and trembling through the whole campaign. 
Whatever these terrors were on the part of Esmond’s mistress 
(and that tenderest of women must have felt them most 
keenly for both her sons, as she called them), she never 
allowed them outwardly to appear, but hid her apprehension 
as she did her charities and devotion. ’Twas only by chance 
that Esmond, wandering in Kensington, found his mistress 
coming out of a mean cottage there, and heard that she 
* What indeed? Psm. xci. 2, 3, 7. R.E. 


31 8 The History of 

had a score of poor retainers, whom she visited and comforted 
in their sickness and poverty, and who blessed her daily. 
She attended the early church daily (though of a Sunday, 
especially, she encouraged and advanced all sorts of cheer- 
fulness and innocent gaiety in her little household) : and by 
notes entered into a table-book of hers at this time, and 
devotional compositions writ with a sweet artless fervour, such 
as the best divines could not surpass, showed how fond her 
heart was, how humble and pious her spirit, what pangs of 
apprehension she endured silently, and with what a faithful 
reliance she committed the care of those she loved to the 
awful Dispenser of death and life. 

As for her Ladyship at Chelsey, Esmond’s newly adopted 
mother, she was now of an age when the danger of any second 
party doth not disturb the rest much. She cared for trumps 
more than for most things in life. She was firm enough in 
her own faith, but no longer very bitter against ours. She 
had a very good-natured, easy French director. Monsieur 
Gauthier by name, who was a gentleman of the world, and 
would take a hand of cards with Dean Atterbury, my Lady’s 
neighbour at Chelsey, and was well with all the High Church 
party. No doubt Monsieur Gauthier knew what Esmond’s 
peculiar position was, for he corresponded with Holt, and 
always treated Colonel Esmond with particular respect and 
kindness ; but for good reasons the Colonel and the Abbe 
never spoke on this matter together, and so they remained 
perfect good friends. 

All the frequenters of my Lady of Chelsey’s house were of 
the Tory and High Church party. Madam Beatrix was as 
frantic about the King as her elderly kinswoman ; she wore 
his picture on her heart *, she had a piece of his hair ; she 
vowed he was the most injured, and gallant, and accomplished, 
and unfortunate, and beautiful of princes. Steele, who 
quarrelled with very many of his Tory friends, but never 
with Esmond, used to tell the Colonel that his kinswoman’s 
house was a rendezvous of Tory intrigues ; that Gauthier 
was a spy ; that Atterbury was a spy ; that letters were con- 
stantly going from that house to the Queen at St Germains ; 
on which Esmond, laughing, would reply, that they used to 


Henry Esmond 319 

say in the army the Duke of Marlborough was a spy too, 
and as much in correspondence with that family as any Jesuit. 
And; without entering very eagerly into the controversy, 
Esmond had frankly taken the side of his family. It seemed 
to him that King James the Third was undoubtedly King of 
England by right ; and at his sister’s death it would be better 
to have him than a foreigner over us. No man admired King 
William more ; a hero and a conqueror, the bravest, justest, 
wisest of men — but ’twas by the sword he conquered the 
country, and held and governed it by the very same right that 
the great Cromwell held it, who was truly and greatly a 
sovereign. But that a foreign despotic prince out of Germany, 
who happened to be descended from King James the First, 
should take possession of this empire, seemed to Mr Esmond 
a monstrous injustice — at least, every Englishman had a right 
to protest, and the English prince, the heir-at-law, the first of 
all. What man of spirit with such a cause would not back it ? 
What man of honour with such a crown to win would not 
fight for it ? But that race was destined. That prince had 
himself against him, an enemy he could not overcome. He 
never dared to draw his sword, though he had it. He let 
his chances slip by as he lay in the lap of opera-girls, or 
snivelled at the knees of priests asking pardon *, and the 
blood of heroes, and the devotedness of honest hearts, and 
endurance, courage, fidelity, were all spent for him in vain. 

But let us return to my Lady of Chelsey, who, when her 
son Esmond announced to her Ladyship that he proposed to 
make the ensuing campaign, took leave of him with perfect 
alacrity, and was down to piquet with her gentlewoman before 
he had well quitted the room on his last visit. ‘‘ Tierce to a 
king,” were the last words he ever heard her say ; the game 
of life was pretty nearly over for the good lady, and three 
months afterwards she took to her bed, where she flickered 
out without any pain, so the Abbe Gauthier wrote over to Mr 
Esmond, then with his General on the frontier of France. 
The Lady Castlewood was with her at her ending, and had 
written too, but these letters must have been taken by a priva- 
teer in the packet that brought them ; for Esmond knew 
nothing of their contents until his return to England. 


320 


The History of 

My Lady Castlewood had left everything to Colonel 
Esmond, ‘‘as a reparation for the wrong done to him ; ” 
’twas writ in her will. But her fortune was not much, for 
it never had been large, and the honest Viscountess had 
wisely sunk most of the money she had upon an annuity which 
terminated with her life. However, there was the house and 
furniture, plate and pictures at Chelsey, and a sum of money 
lying at her merchant’s. Sir Josiah Child, which altogether 
would realise a sum of near three hundred pounds per annum, 
so that Mr Esmond found himself, if not rich, at least easy 
for life. Likewise there were the famous diamonds which 
had been said to be worth fabulous sums, though the gold- 
smith pronounced they would fetch no more than four thousand 
pounds. These diamonds, however. Colonel Esmond re- 
served, having a special use for them ; but the Chelsey house, 
plate, goods, &c., with the exception of a few articles which 
he kept back, were sold by his orders ; and the sums resulting 
from the sale invested in the public securities so as to realise 
the aforesaid annual income of three hundred pounds. 

Having now something to leave, he made a will and 
despatched it home. The army was now in presence of the 
enemy ; and a great battle expected every day. ’Twas known 
that the General-in-Chief was in disgrace, and the parties at 
home strong against him, and there was no stroke this great 
and resolute player would not venture to recall his fortune 
when it seemed desperate. Frank Castlewood was with 
Colonel Esmond ; his General having gladly taken the young 
nobleman on to his staff. His studies of fortification at 
Bruxelles were over by this time. The fort he was besieging 
had yielded, I believe, and my Lord had not only marched in 
with flying colours, but marched out again. He used to tell 
his boyish wickedness with admirable humour, and was the 
most charming young scapegrace in the army. 

’Tis needless to say that Colonel Esmond had left every 
penny of his little fortune to this boy. It was the Colonel’s 
firm conviction that the next battle would put an end to him : 
for he felt aweary of the sun, and quite ready to bid that and 
the earth farewell. Frank would not listen to his comrade’s 
gloomy forebodings, but swore they would keep his birthday 


321 


Henry Esmond 

at Castlewood that autumn, after the campaign. He had 
heard of the engagement at home. “ If Prince Eugene goes 
to London,” says Frank, “and Trix can get hold of him, 
she’ll jilt Ashburnham for his Highness. I tell you, she used 
to make eyes at the Duke of Marlborough when she was only 
fourteen, and ogling poor little Blandford. I wouldn’t marry 
her, Harry — no, not if her eyes were twice as big. I’ll take 
i my fun. I’ll enjoy for the next three years every possible 
pleasure. I’ll sow my wild oats then, and marry some quiet, 
steady, modest, sensible Viscountess ; hunt my harriers ; and 
settle down at Castlewood. Perhaps I’ll represent the county 
I — no, damme, you shall represent the county. You have the 
I brains of the family. By the Lord, my dear old Harry, you 
I have the best head and the kindest heart in all the army ; and 
I every man says so — and when the Queen dies, and the King 
i comes back, why shouldn’t you go to the House of Commons, 
i and be a Minister, and be made a Peer, and that sort of thing ? 
!; Tou be shot in the next action ! I wager a dozen of Burgundy 
you are not touched. Mohun is well of his wound. He is 
always with Corporal John now. As soon as ever I see his 
; ugly face I’ll spit in it. I took lessons of Father — of Captain 
i Holt at Bruxelles. What a man that is ! He knows every- 
thing.” Esmond bade Frank have a care ; that Father Holt’s 
knowledge was rather dangerous ; not, indeed, knowing as 

I yet how far the Father had pushed his instructions with his 
young pupil. 

The gazetteers and writers, both of the French and English 
side, have given accounts sufficient of that bloody battle of 
Blarignies or Malplaquet, which was the last and the hardest 
earned of the victories of the great Duke of Marlborough. 
In that tremendous combat near upon two hundred and fifty 
thousand men were engaged, more than thirty thousand of 
whom were slain or wounded (the Allies lost twice as many 
men as they killed of the French, whom they conquered) : 
and this dreadful slaughter very likely took place because a 
great General’s credit was shaken at home, and he thought to 
restore it by a victory. If such were the motives which 
induced the Duke of Marlborough to venture that prodigious 
stake, and desperately sacrifice thirty thousand brave lives, so 

X 


322 The History of 

that he might figure once more in a Gazette, and hold his 
places and pensions a little longer, the event defeated the 
dreadful and selfish design, for the victory was purchased at 
a cost which no nation, greedy of glory as it may be, would 
willingly pay for any triumph. The gallantry of the French 
was as remarkable as the furious bravery of their assailants. 
We took a few score of their flags, and a few pieces of their 
artillery ; but we left twenty thousand of the bravest soldiers 
of the world round about the intrenched lines, from which 
the enemy was driven. He retreated in perfect good order ; 
the panic-spell seemed to be broke under which the French 
had laboured ever since the disaster of Hochstedt ; and, 
fighting now on the threshold of their country, they showed 
an heroic ardour of resistance, such as had never met us in 
the course of their aggressive war. Had the battle been 
more successful, the conqueror might have got the price 
for which he waged it. As it was (and justly, I think), 
the party adverse to the Duke in England were indig- 
nant at the lavish extravagance of slaughter, and de- 
manded more eagerly than ever the recall of a chief whose 
cupidity and desperation might urge him further still. After 
this bloody fight of Malplaquet, I can answer for it, that 
in the Dutch quarters and our own, and amongst the very regi- 
ments and commanders whose gallantry was most conspicuous 
upon this frightful day of carnage, the general cry was, that 
there was enough of the war. The French were driven back 
into their own boundary, and all their conquests and booty of 
Flanders disgorged. As for the Prince of Savoy, with whom 
our Commander-in-Chief, for reasons of his own, consorted 
more closely than ever, ’twas known that he was animated not 
merely by a political hatred, but by personal rage against the 
old French King : the Imperial Generalissimo never forgot the 
slight put by Lewis upon the Abbe de Savoie; and in the 
humiliation or ruin of His Most Christian Majesty, the Holy 
Roman Emperor found his account. But what were these 
quarrels to us, the free citizens of England and Holland? 
Despot as he was, the French monarch was yet the chief of 
European civilisation, more venerable in his age and mis- 
fortunes than at the period of his most splendid successes ; 


Henry Esmond 323 

whilst his opponent was but a semi-barbarous tyrant, with a 
pillaging, murderous horde of Croats and Pandours, composing 
a half of his army, filling our camp with their strange figures, 
bearded like the miscreant Turks their neighbours, and carry- 
ing into Christian warfare their native heathen habits of rapine, 
lust, and murder. Why should the best blood in England and 
France be shed in order that the Holy Roman and Apostolic 
master of these ruffians should have his revenge over the 
Christian King ? And it was to this end we were fighting ; 
for this that every village and family in England was deploring 
the death of beloved sons and fathers. We dared not speak 
to each other, even at table, of Malplaquet, so frightful were 
the gaps left in our army by the cannon of that bloody action. 
’Twas heartrending for an officer who had a heart to look down 
his line on a parade-day afterwards, and miss hundreds of faces 
! of comrades — humble or of high rank — that had gathered but 
yesterday full of courage and cheerfulness round the torn and 
blackened flags. Where were our friends ? As the great Duke 
reviewed us, riding along our lines with his fine suite of 
prancing aides-de-camp and generals, stopping here and there 
to thank an officer with those eager smiles and bows of which 
his Grace was always lavish, scarce a huzzah could be got for 

him, though Cadogan, with an oath, rode up and cried, “ D 

you, why don’t you cheer ? ” But the men had no heart for 
that : not one of them but was thinking, ‘‘ Where’s my com- 
rade ? — where’s my brother that fought by me, or my dear 
captain that led me yesterday?” ’Twas the most gloomy 
pageant I ever looked on ; and the “ Te Deum ” sung by our 
chaplains, the most woeful and dreary satire. 

Esmond’s General added one more to the many marks of 
honour which he had received in the front of a score of 
battles, and got a wound in the groin, which laid him on his 
back ; and you may be sure he consoled himself by abusing 
the Commander-in-Chief, as he lay groaning : “ Corporal 
John’s as fond of me,” he used to say, ‘‘ as IGng David was 
of General Uriah ; and so he always gives me the post of 
danger.” He persisted, to his dying day, in believing that 
the Duke intended he should be beat at Wynendael, and sent 
him purposely with a small force, hoping that he might be 


324 The History of 

knocked on the head there. Esmond and Frank Castle wood 
both escaped without hurt, though the division which our 
General commanded suffered even more than any other, having 
to sustain not only the fury of the enemy’s cannonade, which 
was very hot and well-served, but the furious and repeated 
charges of the famous Maison du Roy, which we had to 
receive and beat off again and again, with volleys of shot 
and hedges of iron, and our four lines of musqueteers and 
pikemen. They said the King of England charged us no less 
than twelve times that day, along with the French Household. 
Esmond’s late regiment, General Webb’s own Fusileers, served 
in the division which their Colonel commanded. The General 
was thrice in the centre of the square of the Fusileers, calling 
the fire at the French charges, and, after the action, his Grace 
the Duke of Berwick sent his compliments to his old regiment 
and their Colonel for their behaviour on the field. 

We drank my Lord Castlewood’s health and majority, the 
25th of September, the army being then before Mons : and 
here Colonel Esmond was not so fortunate as he had been in 
actions much more dangerous, and was hit by a spent ball just 
above the place where his former wound was, which caused 
the old wound to open again, fever, spitting of blood, and 
other ugly symptoms, to ensue ; and, in a word, brought him 
near to death’s door. The kind lad, his kinsman, attended 
his elder comrade with a very praiseworthy affectionateness 
and care until he was pronounced out of danger by the doctors, 
when Frank went off, passed the winter at Bruxelles, and 
besieged, no doubt, some other fortress there. Very few lads 
would have given up their pleasures so long and so gaily as 
Frank did ; his cheerful prattle soothed many long days of 
Esmond’s pain and languor. Frank was supposed to be still 
at his. kinsman’s bedside for a month after he had left it, for 
letters came from his mother at home full of thanks to the 
younger gentleman for his care of his elder brother (so it 
pleased Esmond’s mistress now affectionately to style him) ; 
nor was Mr Esmond in a hurry to undeceive her, when the 
good young fellow was gone for his Christmas holiday. It 
was as pleasant to Esmond on his couch to watch the young 
man’s pleasure at the idea of being free, as to note his simple 


Henry Esmond 325 

efforts to disguise his satisfaction on going away. There are 
days when a flask of champagne at a cabaret, and a red-cheeked 
partner to share it, are too strong temptations for any young 
fellow of spirit. I am not going to play the moralist, and cry 
“ Fie ! ” For ages past, I know how old men preach, and 
what young men practise ; and that patriarchs have had their 
weak moments too, long since Father Noah toppled over after 
discovering the vine. Frank went off, then, to his pleasures 
at Bruxelles, in which capital many young fellows of our army 
declared they found infinitely greater diversion even than in 
London : and Mr Henry Esmond remained in his sick room, 
where he writ a fine comedy, that his mistress pronounced to 
be sublime, and that was acted no less than three successive 
nights in London in the next year. 

Here, as he lay nursing himself, ubiquitous Mr Holt reap- 
peared, and stopped a whole month at Mons, where he not 
only won over Colonel Esmond to the King’s side in politics 
('that side being always held by the Esmond family); but where 
he endeavoured to re-open the controversial question between 
the Churches once more, and to recall Esmond to that religion 
in which, in his infancy, he had been baptized. Holt was a 
casuist, both dexterous and learned, and presented the case 
between the English Church and his own in such a way that 
those who granted his premises ought certainly to allow his 
conclusions. 

He touched on Esmond’s delicate state of health, chance of 
dissolution, and so forth ; and enlarged upon the immense 
benefits that the sick man was likely to forego — benefits which 
the Church of England did not deny to those of the Roman 
Communion, as how should she, being derived from that 
Church, and only an offshoot from it ? But Mr Esmond said 
that his Church was the Church of his country, and to that he 
chose to remain faithful : other people were welcome to wor- 
ship and to subscribe any other set of articles, whether at 
Rome or at Augsburg. But if the good Father meant that 
Esmond should join the Roman communion for fear of con- 
sequences, and that all England ran the risk of being damned 
for heresy, Esmond, for one, was perfectly willing to take his 
chance of the penalty along with the countless millions of his 


326 The History of 

fellow-countrymen, who were bred in the same faith, and 
along with some of the noblest, the truest, the purest, the 
wisest, the most pious and learned men and women in the 
world. 

As for the political question, in that Mr Esmond could agree 
with the Father much more readily, and had come to the same 
conclusion, though, perhaps, by a different way. The right 
divine, about which Dr Sacheverel and the High Church party 
in England were just now making a bother, they were wel- 
come to hold as they chose. If Richard Cromwell and his 
father before him had been crowned and anointed (and bishops 
enough would have been found to do it), it seemed to Mr 
Esmond that they would have had the right divine just as 
much as any Plantagenet, or Tudor, or Stuart. But the de- 
sire of the country being unquestionably for an hereditary 
monarchy, Esmond thought an English king out of St Ger- 
mains was better and fitter than a German prince from 
Herrenhausen, and that if he failed to satisfy the nation, some 
other Englishman might be found to take his place ; and so, 
though with no frantic enthusiasm, or worship of that mon- 
strous pedigree which the Tories chose to consider divine, he 
was ready to say, ‘‘ God save King James ! ” when Queen 
Anne went the way of kings and commoners. 

“ I fear. Colonel, you are no better than a republican at 
heart,” says the priest, with a sigh. 

‘‘ I am an Englishman,” says Harry, ‘‘ and take my country 
as I find her. The will of the nation being for Church and 
King, I am for Church and King too ; but English Church and 
English King ; and that is why your Church isn’t mine, though 
your King is.” 

Though they lost the day at Malplaquet, it was the French 
who were elated by that action, whilst the conquerors were 
dispirited by it : and the enemy gathered together a larger 
army than ever, and made prodigious efforts for the next cam- 
paign. Marshall Berwick was with the French this year ; and we 
heard that Mareschal Villars was still suffering of his wound, 
was eager to bring our Duke to action, and vowed he would 
fight us in his coach. Young Castlewood came flying back 
from Bruxelles as soon as he heard that fighting was to begin; 


3^7 


Henry Esmond 

and the arrival of the Chevalier de St George was announced 
about May. “It’s the King’s third campaign, and it’s mine,” 
Frank liked saying. He was come back a greater Jacobite 
than ever, and Esmond suspected that some fair conspirators at 
Bruxelles had been inflaming the young man’s ardour. Indeed, 
he owned that he had a message from the Queen, Beatrix’s 
godmother, who had given her name to Frank’s sister the year 
before he and his sovereign were born. 

However desirous Mareschal Villars might be to fight, 
my Lord Duke did not seem disposed to indulge him this 
campaign. Last year his Grace had been all for the Whigs 
and Hanoverians ; but finding, on going to England, his 
country cold towards himself, and the people in a ferment 
of High Church loyalty, the Duke comes back to his army 
cooled towards the Hanoverians, cautious with the Imperialists, 
and particularly civil and polite towards the Chevalier de St 
George. ’Tis certain that messengers and letters were con- 
tinually passing between his Grace and his brave nephew, the 
Duke of Berwick, in the opposite camp. No man’s caresses 
were more opportune than his Grace’s, and no man ever uttered 
expressions of regard and affection more generously. He pro- 
fessed to Monsieur de Torcy, so Mr St John told the writer, 
quite an eagerness to be cut in pieces for the exiled Queen 
and her family ; nay more, I believe, this year he parted with 
a portion of the most precious part of himself — his money — 
which he sent over to the royal exiles. Mr Tunstal, who 
was in the Prince’s service, was twice or thrice in and out 
of our camp ; the French, in theirs of Arlieu and about Arrau. 
A little river, the Canihe I think ’twas called (but this is writ 
away from books and Europe ; and the only map the writer 
hath of these scenes of his youth, bears no mark of this little 
stream), divided our picquets from the enemy’s. Our sentries 
talked across the stream, when they could make themselves 
understood to each other, and when they could not, grinned, 
and handed each other their brandy-flasks or their pouches of 
tobacco. And one fine day of June, riding thither with the 
officer who visited the outposts (Colonel Esmond was taking 
an airing on horseback, being too weak for military duty), 
they came to this river, where a number of English and 


328 The History of 

Scots were assembled, talking to the good-natured enemy 
on the other side. 

Esmond was especially amused with the talk of one long 
fellow, with a great curling red moustache, and blue eyes, 
that was half-a-dozen inches taller than his swarthy little 
comrades on the French side of the stream, and being asked 
by the Colonel, saluted him, and said that he belonged to the 
Royal Cravats. 

From his way of saying “ Royal Cravat,” Esmond at once 
knew that the fellow’s tongue, had first wagged on the banks 
of the Liffey, and not the Loire ; and the poor soldier — a 
deserter probably — did not like to venture very deep into 
French conversation, lest his unlucky brogue should peep 
out. He chose to restrict himself to such few expressions 
in the French language as he thought he had mastered 
easily ; and his attempt at disguise was infinitely amusing. 
Mr Esmond whistled Lillibullero, at which Teague’s eyes 
began to twinkle, and then flung him a dollar, when the 
poor boy broke out with a “ God bless — that is, Dieu benisse 
votre honor,” that would infallibly have sent him to the 
provost-marshal had he been on our side of the river. 

Whilst this parley was going on, three officers on horse- 
back, on the French side, appeared at some little distance, and 
stopped as if eyeing us, when one of them left the other two, 
and rode close up to us who were by the stream. “ Look, 
look ! ” says the Royal Cravat, with great agitation, “ pas lui, 
that’s he ; not him, J’autre,” and pointed to the distant officer 
a a chestnut horse, with a cuirass shining in the sun, and over 
it a broad blue ribbon. 

“ Please to take Mr Hamilton’s services to my Lord Marl- 
borough — my Lord Duke,” says the gentleman in English ; 
and looking to see that the party were not hostilely disposed, 
he added, with a smile, “ There’s a friend of yours, gentlemen,* 
yonder ; he bids me to say that he saw some of your faces on 
the nth of September last year.” 

As the gentleman spoke, the other two officers rode up, and 
came quite close. We knew at once who it was. It was the 
King, then two-and-twenty years old, tall and slim, with deep 
brown eyes, that looked melancholy, though his lips wore a 


Henry Esmond 329 

smile. We took off our hats and saluted him. No man, sure, 
could see for the first time, without emotion, the youthful 
inheritor of so much fame and misfortune. It seemed to Mr 
Esmond that the Prince was not unlike young Castlewood, 
whose age and figure he resembled. The Chevalier de St 
George acknowledged the salute, and looked at us hard. Even 
the idlers on our side of the river set up a hurrah. As for the 
Royal Cravat, he ran to the Prince’s stirrup, knelt down and 
kissed his boot, and bawled and looked a hundred ejaculations 
and blessings. The Prince bade the aide-de-camp give him a 
piece of money ; and when the party saluting us had ridden 
away. Cravat spat upon the piece of gold by way of bene- 
diction, and swaggered away, pouching his coin and twirling 
his honest carroty moustache. 

The officer in whose company Esmond was, the same little 
captain of Handyside’s regiment, Mr Sterne, who had proposed 
the garden at Lille, when my Lord Mohun and Esmond had 
their affair, was an Irishman too, and as brave a little soul as 
ever wore a sword. ‘‘ Bedad,” says Roger Sterne, ‘‘ that 
long fellow spoke French so beautiful that I shouldn’t have 
known he wasn’t a foreigner, till he broke out with his hulla- 
[ hallooing, and only an Irish calf can bellow like that.” And 
I Roger made another remark in his wild way, in which there 
was sense as well as absurdity : ‘‘ If that young gentleman,” 
says he, “ would but ride over to our camp, instead of 
Villars’s, toss up his hat and say, ‘ Here am I, the King, 
who’ll follow me ? ” by the Lord, Esmond, the whole army 
would rise and carry him home again, and beat Villars, and 
take Paris by the way.” 

The news of the Prince’s visit was all through the camp 
quickly, and scores of ours went down in hopes to see him. 
Major Hamilton, whom we had talked with, sent back by a 
trumpet several silver pieces for officers with us. Mr Esmond 
received one of these j and that medal, and a recompense not 
uncommon amongst Princes, were the only rewards he ever had 
from a royal person whom he endeavoured not very long after 
to serve. 

I Esmond quitted the army almost immediately after this, 

I following his General home ; and, indeed, being advised to 


330 The History of i 

travel in the fine weather and attempt to take no further part I 
in the campaign. But he heard from the army, that of the , 
many who crowded to see the Chevalier de St George, Frank | 
Castlewood had made himself most conspicuous : my Lord ‘ 
Viscount riding across the little stream bare headed to where 
the Prince was, and dismounting and kneeling before him to | 
do him homage. Some said that the Prince had actually 
knighted him, but my Lord denied that statement, though he 
acknowledged the rest of the story, and said : ‘‘ From having 
been out of favour with Corporal John,” as he called the 
Duke, “ before his Grace warned him not to commit those 
follies, and smiled on him cordially ever after.” 

“ And he was so kind to me,” Frank writ, ‘‘ that I thought 
I would put in a good word for Master Harry, but when I 
mentioned your name he looked as black as thunder, and said 
he had never heard of you.” 


Chapter II 

I go Home, and Harp on the old String 

After quitting Mons and the army, and as he was waiting for 
a packet at Ostend, Esmond had a letter from his young kins- 
man Castlewood at Bruxelles, conveying intelligence whereof 
Frank besought him to be the bearer to London, and which 
caused Colonel Esmond no small anxiety. 

The young scapegrace, being one-and-twenty years old, 
and being anxious to sow his “ wild otes,” as he wrote, had 
married Mademoiselle de Wertheim, daughter of Count de 
Wertheim, Chamberlain to the Emperor, and having a post 
in the Household of the Governor of the Netherlands. 
“ P.S.,” the young gentleman wrote : ‘‘ Clotilda is older than 
me^ which perhaps may be objected to her : but I am so 
old a rake that the age makes no difference, and I am deter- 
tnined to reform. We were married at St Gudule, by Father 
Holt. She is heart and soul for the good cause. And here 
the cry is Vif-le-Roy, which my mother will join in^ and 
Trix too. Break this news to ’em gently : and tell Mr 


Henry Esmond 331 

Finch, my agent, to press the people for their rents, and 
send me the ryno anyhow. Clotilda sings, and plays on the 
spinet beautifully. She is a fair beauty. And if it’s a son, 
you shall stand Godfather, I’m going to leave the army, having 
had enuf of soldering; and my Lord Duke recommends me. 
I shall pass the winter here : and stop at least until Clo’s 
lying-in. I call her old Clo, but nobody else shall. She is 
the cleverest woman in all Bruxelles : understanding painting, 
music, poetry, and perfect at cookery and puddens, I horded 
with the Count, that’s how I came to know her. There are 
four Counts her brothers. One an Abbey — three with the 
Prince’s army. They have a lawsuit for an immence fortune: 
but are now in a pore way. Break this to Mother, who’ll take 
anything from you. And write, and bid Finch write amediately. 
Hostel de I’Aigle Noire, Bruxelles, Flanders.” 

So Frank had married a Roman Catholic lady, and an heir 
was expected, and Mr Esmond was to carry this intelligence 
to his mistress at London. ’Twas a difficult embassy ; and 
the Colonel felt not a little tremor as he neared the capital. 

He reached his inn late, and sent a messenger to Kensington 
to announce his arrival and visit the next morning. The 
messenger brought back news that the Court was at Windsor, 
and the fair Beatrix absent and engaged in her duties there. 
Only Esmond’s mistress remained in her house at Kensington. 

1 She appeared in Court but once in the year ; Beatrix was 
quite the mistress and ruler of the little mansion, inviting the 
company thither, and engaging in every conceivable frolic of 
town pleasure ; whilst her mother, acting as the young lady’s 
protectress and elder sister, pursued her own path, which was 
quite modest and secluded. 

As soon as ever Esmond was dressed (and he had been 
awake long before the town), he took a coach for Kensington, 
and reached it so early that he met his dear mistress coming 
home from morning prayers. She carried her prayer-book, 
never allowing a footman to bear it, as everybody else did ; 
and it was by this simple sign Esmond knew what her occupa- 
tion had been. He called to the coachman to stop, and 
jumped out as she looked towards him. She wore her hood 
' as usual, and she turned quite pale when she saw him. To 


332 The History of 1 

feel that kind little hand near to his heart seemed to give him ^ 
strength. They were soon at the door of her Ladyship’s i 
house — and within it. | 

With a sweet sad smile she took his hand and kissed it. • j 
“ How ill you have been : how weak you look, my dear 
Henry ! ” she said. i 

’Tis certain the Colonel did look like a ghost, except that 
ghosts do not look very happy, ’tis said, Esmond always felt . 
so on returning to her after absence, indeed whenever he 
looked in her sweet, kind face. 

‘‘ I am come back to be nursed by my family,” says he. ; 
“ If Frank had not taken care of me after my wound, very ! 
likely I should have gone altogether.” I 

“ Poor Frank, good Frank ! ” says his mother. “ You’ll 
always be kind to him, my Lord,” she went on. “ The poor 
child never knew he was doing you a wrong.” 

“ My Lord ! ” cries out Colonel Esmond. “ What do you 
mean, dear lady ? ” 

“ I am no lady,” says she; “I am Rachel Esmond, Francis 
Esmond’s widow, my Lord. I cannot bear that title. Would 
we never had taken it from him who has it now. But we did 
all in our power, Henry : we did all in our power ; and my 
Lord and I — that is ” 

“ Who told you this tale, dearest lady ? ” asked the Colonel. 
“ Have you not had the letter I writ you ? I writ to you at 
Mons directly I heard it,” says Lady Esmond. 

“ And from whom ? ” again asked Colonel Esmond — and 
his mistress then told him that on her death-bed the Dowager 
Countess, sending for her, had presented her with this dismal 
secret as a legacy. ‘‘ ’Twas very malicious of the Dowager,” 
Lady Esmond said, ‘‘to have had it so long, and to have 
kept the truth from me.” “Cousin Rachel,” she said — and 
Esmond’s mistress could not forbear smiling as she told the 
story — “ Cousin Rachel,” cries the Dowager, “ I have sent 
for you, as the doctors say I may go off any day in this dysen- 
tery ; and to ease my conscience of a great load that has been 
on it. You always have been a poor creature and unfit for 
great honour, and what I have to say won’t, therefore, affect 
you so much. You must know. Cousin Rachel, that I have 


333 


Henry Esmond 

left my house, plate, and furniture, three thousand pounds in 
money, and my diamonds that my late revered Saint and 
Sovereign, King James, presented me with, to my Lord 
Viscount Castlewood.” 

“To my Frank ? ” says Lady Castlewood : “I was in 
hopes ” 

“ To Viscount Castlewood, my dear ; Viscount Castlewood 
and Baron Esmond of Shandon in the Kingdom of Ireland, 
Earl and Marquis of Esmond under patent of His Majesty 
King James the Second, conferred upon my husband the late 
Marquis — for I am Marchioness of Esmond before God and 
man.” 

“And have you left poor Harry nothing, dear Marchioness?” 
asks Lady Castlewood (she hath told me the story completely 
since with her quiet arch way ; the most charming any woman 
ever had : and I set down the narrative here at length, so as 
to have done with it). “ And have you left poor Harry 
nothing ? ” asks my dear lady : “ for you know, Henry,” she 
says with her sweet smile, “ I used always to pity Esau — and 
I think I am on his side — though papa tried very hard to con- 
vince me the other way.” 

“ Poor Harry ! ” says the old lady. “ So you want some- 
thing left to poor Harry : he, — he ! (reach me the drops. 
Cousin). Well, then, my dear, since you want poor Harry 
to have a fortune, you must understand that ever since the 
year 169T, a week after the Battle of the Boyne, where the 
Prince of Orange defeated his royal sovereign and father, for 
which crime he is now suffering in flames (ugh! ughi), Henry 
Esmond hath been Marquis of Esmond and Earl of Castlewood 
in the United Kingdom, and Baron and Viscount Castlewood 
of Shandon in Ireland, and a Baronet — and his eldest son will 
be by courtesy, styled Earl of Castlewood — he ! he I What 
do you think of that, my dear ? ” 

“ Gracious mercy I how long have you known this ? ” cries 
the other lady (thinking perhaps that the old Marchioness was 
wandering in her wits). 

“ My husband, before he was converted, was a wicked 
wretch,” the sick sinner continued. “ When he was in the 
Low Countries he seduced a weaver’s daughter ; and added to 


334 


The History of 

his wickedness by marrying her. And then he came to this 
country and married me — a poor girl — a poor innocent young 
thing — I say,” — ‘‘ though she was past forty, you know, 

Harry, when she married : and as for being innocent ” 

‘‘ Well,” she went on, “ I knew nothing of my Lord’s wicked- 
ness for three years after our marriage, and after the burial of 
our poor little boy I had it done over again, my dear : I had 
myself married by Father Holt in Castlewood chapel, as soon 
as ever I heard the creature was dead — and having a great ill- 
ness then, arising from another sad disappointment I had, the 
priest came and told me that my Lord had a son before our 
marriage, and that the child was at a nurse in England ; and I 
consented to let the brat be brought home, and a queer little 
melancholy child it was when it came. 

‘‘ Our intention was to make a priest of him : and he was 
bred for this, until you perverted him from it, you wicked 
woman. And I had again hopes of giving an heir to my Lord, 
when he was called away upon the King’s business, and died 
fighting gloriously at the Boyne water. 

‘‘ Should I be disappointed — I owed your husband no love, 
my dear, for he had jilted me in the most scandalous way — I 
thought there would be time to declare the little weaver’s son 
for the true heir. But I was carried off to prison, where your 
husband was so kind to me — urging all his friends to obtain 
my release, and using all his credit in my favour — that I re- 
lented towards him, especially as my director counselled me to 
be silent ; and that it was for the good of the King’s service 
that the title of our family should continue with your husband 
the late Viscount, whereby his fidelity would be always secured 
to the King. And a proof of this is, that a year before your 
husband’s death, when he thought of taking a place under 
the Prince of Orange, Mr Holt went to him, and told him 
what the state of the matter was, and obliged him to raise 
a large sum for His Majesty, and engaged him in the true 
cause so heartily, that we were sure of his support on any day 
when it should be considered advisable to attack the usurper. 
Then his sudden death came ; and there was a thought of de- 
claring the truth. But ’twas determined to be best for the 
King’s service to let the title still go with the younger branch ; 


Henry Esmond 335 

and there’s no sacrifice a Castlewood wouldn’t make for that 
cause, my dear. 

As for Colonel Esmond, he knew the truth already.” 
(“ And then, Harry,” my mistress said, she told me of what 
had happened at my dear husband’s death-bed.”) ‘‘He doth 
not intend to take the title, though it belongs to him. But it 
eases my conscience that you should know the truth, my dear. 
And your son is lawfully Viscount Castlewood so long as his 
cousin doth not claim the rank.” 

This was the substance of the Dowager’s revelation. Dean 
Atterbury had knowledge of it, Lady Castlewood said, and 
Esmond very well knows how ; that divine being the clergy- 
man for whom the late lord had sent on his death-bed ; and 
when Lady Castlewood would instantly have written to her 
son, and conveyed the truth to him, the Dean’s advice was 
that a letter should be writ to Colonel Esmond rather : that 
the matter should be submitted to his decision, by which alone 
the rest of the family were bound to abide. 

“ And can my dearest lady doubt what that will be ” says 
the Colonel. 

“ It rests with you, Harry, as the head of our house.” 

“ It was settled twelve years since, by my dear lord’s bed- 
side,” says Colonel Esmond. “The children must know nothing 
of this. Frank and his heirs after him must bear our name. 
’Tis his rightfully : I have not even a proof of that marriage of 
my father and mother, though my poor lord, on his death -bed, 
told me that Father Holt had brought such a proof to Castle- 
wood. I would not seek it when I was abroad. I went and 
looked at my poor mother’s grave in her convent. What 
matter to her now ? No court of law on earth, upon my mere 
word, would deprive my Lord Viscount and set me up. I 
am the head of the house, dear lady ; but Frank is Viscount 
of Castlewood still. And rather than disturb him, I would 
turn monk, or disappear in America.” 

As he spoke so to his dearest mistress, for whom he would 
have been willing to give up his life, or to make any sacrifice 
any day, the fond creature flung herself down on her knees 
before him, and kissed both his hands in an outbreak of 
passionate love and gratitude, such as could not but melt his 


336 The History of 

heart, and make him feel very proud and thankful that God 
had given him the power to show his love for her, and to 
prove it by some little sacrifice on his own part. To be 
able to bestow benefits or happiness on those one loves 
is sure the greatest blessing conferred upon a man — and 
what wealth or name or gratification of ambition or vanity, 
could compare with the pleasure Esmond now had of being 
able to confer some kindness upon his best and dearest 
friends ? 

‘‘ Dearest saint,” says he — “ purest soul, that has had so 
much to suffer, that has blest the poor lonely orphan with such 
a treasure of love ! ’Tis for me to kneel, not for you ; ’tis for 
me to be thankful that I can make you happy. Hath my life 
any other aim ? Blessed be God that I can serve you ! What 
pleasure, think you, could all the world give me compared to 
that ? ” 

‘‘ Don’t raise me,” she said, in a wild way, to Esmond, who 
would have lifted her. “ Let me kneel — let me kneel, and — 
and — worship you.” 

Before such a partial judge as Esmond’s dear mistress owned 
herself to be, any cause which he might plead was sure to be 
given in his favour ; and accordingly he found little difficulty 
in reconciling her to the news whereof he was bearer, of 
her son’s marriage to a foreign lady. Papist though she was. 
Lady Castlewood never could be brought to think so ill of 
that religion as other people in England thought of it : she 
held that ours was undoubtedly a branch of the Catholic 
Church, but that the Roman was one of the main stems, on 
which, no doubt, many errors had been grafted (she was, for 
a woman, extraordinarily well versed in this controversy, 
having acted, as a girl, as secretary to her father, the late 
Dean, and written many of his sermons, under his dicta- 
tion) : and if Frank had chosen to marry a lady of the Church 
of South Europe, as she would call the Roman communion, 
there was no need why she should not welcome her as a 
daughter-in-law : and accordingly she wrote to her new 
daughter a very pretty, touching letter (as Esmond thought, 
who had cognisance of it before it went), in which the only 


Henry Esmond 337 

hint of reproof was a gentle remonstrance that her son had 
not written to herself, to ask a fond mother’s blessing for that 
step which he was about taking. ‘‘ Castlewood knew very 
well,” so she wrote to her son, “ that she never denied him 
anything in her power to give, much less would she think of 
opposing a marriage that was to make his happiness, as she 
trusted, and keep him out of wild courses, which had alarmed 
her a good deal : ” and she besought him to come quickly to 
England, to settle down in his family house of Castlewood 

It is his family house,” says she to Colonel Esmond, 
“though only his own house by your forbearance”), and to 
receive the accompt of her stewardship during his ten years’ 
minority. By care and frugality, she had got the estate 
into a better condition than ever it had been since the 
Parliamentary wars ; and my Lord was now master of a 
pretty, small income, not encumbered of debts, as it had been 
during his father’s ruinous time. “ But in saving my son’s 
fortune,” says she, “I fear I have lost a great part of my 
hold on him.” And, indeed, this was the case: her Lady- 
ship’s daughter complaining that their mother did all for 
Frank, and nothing for her; and Frank himself being dis- 
satisfied at the narrow, simple way of his mother’s living at 
Walcote, where he had been brought up more like a poor 
parson’s son than a young nobleman that was to make a 
figure in the world. ’Twas this mistake in his early training, 
very likely, that set him so eager upon pleasure when he 
had it in his power ; nor is he the first lad that has been 
spoiled by the over-careful fondness of women. No training 
is so useful for children, great or small, as the company of 
their betters in rank or natural parts ; in whose society they 
lose the overweening sense of their own importance, which 
stay-at-home people very commonly learn. 

But, as a prodigal that’s sending in a schedule of his debts 
to his friends, never puts all down, and, you may be sure, the 
rogue keeps back some immense swingeing bill, that he 
doesn’t dare to own ; so the poor Frank had a very heavy 
piece of news to break to his mother, and which he hadn’t the 
courage to introduce into his first confession. Some mis- 
givings Esmond might have, upon receiving Frank’s letter. 


338 The History of 

and knowing into what hands the boy had fallen ; but what- 
ever these misgivings were, he kept them to himself, not 
caring to trouble his mistress with any fears that might be 
groundless. 

However, the next mail which came from Bruxelles, after 
Frank had received his mother’s letters there, brought back a 
joint composition from himself and his wife, who could spell 
no better than her young scapegrace of a husband, full of ex- 
pressions of thanks, love, and duty to the Dowager Vis- 
countess, as my poor lady now was styled ; and along with 
this letter (which was read in a family council, namely, the 
Viscountess, Mistress Beatrix, and the writer of this Memoir, 
and which was pronounced to be vulgar by the Maid of 
Honour, and felt to be so by the other two) there came 
a private letter for Colonel Esmond from poor Frank, with 
another dismal commission for the Colonel to execute, at his 
best opportunity ; and this was to announce that Frank had 
seen fit, ‘‘ by the exhortation of Mr Holt, the influence of his 
Clotilda, and the blessing of Heaven and the saints,” says my 
Lord demurely, “ to change his religion, and be received into 
the bosom of that Church of which his sovereign, many of his 
family, and the greater part of the civilised world, were mem- 
bers.” And his Lordship added a postscript, of which 
Esmond knew the inspiring genius very well, for it had the 
genuine twang of the Seminary, and was quite unlike poor 
Frank’s ordinary style of writing and thinking ; in which he 
reminded Colonel Esmond that he too was, by birth, of that 
Church ; and that his mother and sister should have his Lord- 
ship’s prayers to the saints (an inestimable benefit, truly !) for 
their conversion. 

If Esmond had wanted to keep this secret, he could not ; for 
a day or two after receiving this letter, a notice from Bruxelles 
appeared in the Post-Boy and other prints, announcing that “ a 
young Irish lord, the Viscount C-stlew — d, just come to his 
majority, and who had served the last campaigns with great 
credit, as aide-de-camp to his Grace the Duke of Marlborough, 
had declared for the Popish religion at Bruxelles, and had 
walked in a procession barefoot, with a wax-taper in his 
hand.” The notorious Mr Holt, who had been employed 


339 


Henry Esmond 

as a Jacobite agent during the last reign, and many times 
pardoned by King William, had been, the Post-Boy said, the 
agent of this conversion. 

The Lady Castlewood was as much cast down by this news 
as Miss Beatrix was indignant at it. “ So,” says she, “ Castle- 
wood is no longer a home for us, mother. Frank’s foreign 
wife will bring her confessor, and there will be frogs for 
dinner ; and all Tusher’s and my grandfather’s sermons are 
flung away upon my brother. I used to tell you that you 
killed him with the Catechism, and that he would turn wicked 
as soon as he broke from his mammy’s leading-strings. Oh, 
mother, you would not believe that the young scapegrace was 
playing you tricks, and that sneak of a Tusher was not 
a fit guide for him. Oh, those parsons, I hate ’em all ! ” 
says Mistress Beatrix, clapping her hands together; ‘‘yes, 
whether they wear cassocks and buckles, or beards and bare 
feet. There’s a horrid Irish wretch who never misses a 
Sunday at Court, and who pays me compliments there, the 
horrible man ; and if you want to know what parsons are, 
you should see his behaviour, and hear him talk of his own 
cloth. They’re all the same, whether they’re bishops, or 
bonzes, or Indian fakirs. They try to domineer, and they 
frighten us with kingdom come ; and they wear a sanctified 
air in public, and expect us to go down on our knees and ask 
their blessing ; and they intrigue, and they grasp, and they 
backbite, and they slander worse than the worst courtier or 
the wickedest old woman. I heard this Mr Swift sneering at 
my Lord Duke of Marlborough’s courage the other day. He ! 
that Teague from Dublin ! because his Grace is not in favour, 
dares to say this of him ; and he says this that it may get to 
Her Majesty’s ear, and to coax and wheedle Mrs Masham. 
They say the Elector of Hanover has a dozen of mistresses in 
his Court at Herrenhausen, and if he comes to be king over 
us, I wager that the bishops and Mr Swift, that wants to be 
one, will coax and wheedle them. Oh, those priests and their 
grave airs ! I’m sick of their square toes and their rustling 
cassocks. I should like to go to a country where there was 
not one, or turn Quaker, and get rid of ’em ; and I would, 
only the dress is not becoming, and I’ve much too pretty a 


340 


The History of 

figure to hide it. Haven’t I, Cousin ? ” and here she 
glanced at her person and the looking-glass, which told 
her rightly that a more beautiful shape and face never were 
seen. 

“ I made that onslaught on the priests,” says Miss Beatrix, 
afterwards, “ in order to divert my poor dear mother’s anguish 
about Frank. Frank is as vain as a girl. Cousin. Talk of us 
girls being vain, what are we to you ? It was easy to see that 
the first woman who chose would make a fool of him, or the 
first robe — I count a priest and a woman all the same. We 
are always caballing ; we are not answerable for the fibs we 
tell ; we are always cajoling and coaxing, or threatening ; and 
we are always making mischief. Colonel Esmond — mark my 
word for that, who know the world, sir, and have to make my 
way in it. I see as well as possible how Frank’s marriage 
hath been managed. The Count, our papa-in-law, is always 
away at the colFee-house. The Countess, our mother, is always 
in the kitchen looking after the dinner. The Countess, our 
sister, is at the spinet. When my Lord comes to say he is 
going on the campaign, the lovely Clotilda bursts into tears, 
and faints — so ; he catches her in his arms — no, sir, keep 
your distance. Cousin, if you please — she cries on his shoulder, 
and he says, ‘ Oh, my divine, my adored, my beloved Clotilda, 
are you sorry to part with me.?’ ‘Oh, my Francisco,’ says 
she, ‘ oh, my Lord ! ’ and at this very instant mamma and a 
couple of young brothers, with moustaches and long rapiers, 
come in from the kitchen, where they have been eating bread 
and onions. Mark my word, you will have all this woman’s 
relations at Castlewood three months after she has arrived 
there. The old count and countess, and the young counts, 
and all the little countesses her sisters. Counts ! every one of 
these wretches says he is a count. Guiscard, that stabbed Mr 
Harley, said he was a count ; and I believe he was a barber. 
All Frenchmen are barbers — Fiddledee ! don’t contradict me 
— or else dancing-masters, or else priests.” And so she 
rattled on. 

“ Who was it taught you to dance. Cousin Beatrix .? ” says 
the Colonel. 

She laughed out the air of a minuet, and swept a low curtsey, 


341 


Henry Esmond 

coming up to the recover with the prettiest little foot in the 
world pointed out. Her mother came in as she was in this 
attitude *, my Lady had been in her closet, having taken poor 
Frank’s conversion in a very serious way ; the madcap girl ran 
up to her mother, put her arms round her waist, kissed her, 
tried to make her dance, and said, “ Don’t be silly, you kind 
little mamma, and cry about Frank turning Papist. What a 
figure he must be, with a white sheet and a candle, walking 
in a procession barefoot ! ” And she kicked off her little 
slippers (the wonderfullest little shoes, with wonderful tall 
red heels ; Esmond pounced upon one as it fell close beside 
him), and she put on the drollest little mme, and marched up 
and down the room holding Esmond’s cane by way of taper. 
Serious as her mood was. Lady Castlewood could not refrain 
from laughing ; and as for Esmond, he looked on with that 
delight with which the sight of this fair creature always 
! inspired him : never had he seen any woman so arch, so 
! brilliant, and so beautiful. 

Having finished her march, she put out her foot for her 
slipper. The Colonel knelt down ! “ If you will be Pope 

I will turn Papist,” says he ; and her Holiness gave him 
I gracious leave to kiss the little stockinged foot before he 
' put the slipper on. 

Mamma’s feet began to pat on the floor during this opera- 
tion, and Beatrix, whose bright eyes nothing escaped, saw 
! that little mark of impatience. She ran up and embraced her 
! mother with her usual cry of, Oh, you silly little mamma : 
• your feet are quite as pretty as mine,” says she : ‘‘ they are, 
j Cousin, though she hides ’em ; but the shoemaker will tell 
you that he makes for both off the same last.” 

‘‘ You are taller than I am, dearest,” says her mother, blush- 
i ing over her whole sweet face — ‘‘ and — and it is your hand, 
i my dear, and not your foot he wants you to give him ; ” and 
she said it with a hysteric laugh, that had more of tears than 
laughter in it ; laying her head on her daughter’s fair shoulder, 

■ and hiding it there. They made a very pretty picture to- 
gether, and looked like a pair of sisters — the sweet simple 
1 matron seeming younger than her years, and her daughter, if 
j not older, yet somehow, from a commanding manner and grace 


34^, The History of 

which she possessed above most women, her mother’s superior 
and protectress. 

“ But oh ! ” cries my mistress, recovering herself after this 
scene, and returning to her usual sad tone, ’tis a shame that 
we should laugh and be making merry on a day when we 
ought to be down on our knees and asking pardon.” 

“ Asking pardon for what ? ” says saucy Mrs Beatrix — 
“ because Frank takes it into his head to fast on Fridays and 
worship images ? You know if you had been born a Papist, 
mother, a Papist you would have remained to the end of your 
days. ’Tis the religion of the King and some of the best 
quality. For my part. Pm no enemy to it, and think Queen 
Bess was not a penny better than Queen Mary.” 

“Hush, Beatrix! Do not jest with sacred things, and 
remember of what parentage you come,” cries my Lady. 
Beatrix was ordering her ribbons, and adjusting her tucker, 
and performing a dozen provokingly pretty ceremonies before 
the glass. The girl was no hypocrite at least. She never at 
that time could be brought to think but of the world and her 
beauty ; and seemed to have no more sense of devotion than 
some people have of music, that cannot distinguish one air 
from another. Esmond saw this fault in her, as he saw 
many others — a bad wife would Beatrix Esmond make, he 
thought, for any man under the degree of a prince. She 
was born to shine in great assemblies, and to adorn palaces, 
and to command everywhere — to conduct an intrigue of 
politics, or to glitter in a queen’s train. But to sit at a 
homely table, and mend the stockings of a poor man’s 
children I that was no fitting duty for her, or at least one 
that she wouldn’t have broke her heart in trying to do. 
She was a princess, though she had scarce a shilling to her 
fortune ; and one of her subjects — the most abject and 
devoted wretch, sure, that ever drivelled at a woman’s knees 
— was this unlucky gentleman ; who bound his good sense, 
and reason, and independence, hand and foot, and submitted 
them to her. 

And who does not know how ruthlessly women will 
tyrannise when they are let to domineer ? and who does not 
know how useless advice is ? I could give good counsel to 


343 


Henry Esmond 

my descendants, but I know they’ll follow their own way, for 
all their grandfather’s sermon. A man gets his own experi- 
ence about women, and will take nobody’s hearsay ; nor, 
indeed, is the young fellow worth a fig that would. ’Tis I 
that am in love with my mistress, not my old grandmother 
that counsels me : ’tis I that have fixed the value of the thing 
I would have, and know the price I would pay for it. It may 
be worthless to you, but ’tis all my life to me. Had Esmond 
possessed the Great Mogul’s crown and all his diamonds, or 
all the Duke of Marlborough’s money, or all the ingots sunk 
at Vigo, he would have given them all for this woman. A 
fool he was, if you will ; but so is a sovereign a fool, that 
will give half a principality for a little crystal as big as a 
pigeon’s egg, and called a diamond : so is a wealthy nobleman 
a fool, that will face danger or death, and spend half his life, 
and all his tranquillity, caballing for a blue riband ; so is a 
Dutch merchant a fool, that hath been known to pay ten 
thousand crowns for a tulip. There’s some particular prize 
we all of us value, and that every man of spirit will venture 
his life for. With this, it may be to achieve a great reputa- 
tion for learning ; with that, to be a man of fashion, and the 
admiration of the town ; with another, to consummate a great 
work of art or poetry, and go to immortality that way : and 
with another, for a certain time of his life, the sole object and 
aim is a woman. 

Whilst Esmond was under the domination of this passion, 
he remembers many a talk he had with his intimates, who 
used to rally Our Knight of the Rueful Countenance at his 
devotion, whereof he made no disguise, to Beatrix ; and it 
was with replies such as the above he met his friend’s satire. 
“ Granted, I am a fool,” says he, and no better than you ; 
but you are no better than I. You have your folly you labour 
for; give me the charity of mine. What flatteries do you, Mr 
St John, stoop to whisper in the ears of a queen’s favourite ? 
What nights of labour doth not the laziest man in the world 
endure, foregoing his bottle, and his boon companions, fore- 
going Lais, in whose lap he would like to be yawning, that 
he may prepare a speech full of lies, to cajole three hundred 
Stupid country gentlemen' in the House of Commons, and get 


344 


The History of 

the hiccupping cheers of the October Club ! What days will 
you spend in your jolting chariot ” (Mr Esmond often rode to 
Windsor, and especially, of later days, with the Secretary). 
What hours will you pass on your gouty feet — and how 
humbly will you kneel down to present a despatch — you, the 
proudest man in the world, that has not knelt to God since 
you were a boy, and in that posture whisper, flatter, adore 
almost, a stupid woman, that’s often boozy with too much 
meat and drink, when Mr Secretary goes for his audience ! 
If my pursuit is vanity, sure yours is too.” And then the 
Secretary would fly out in such a rich flow of eloquence as 
this pen cannot pretend to recall ; advocating his scheme of 
ambition, showing the great good he would do for his 
country when he was the undisputed chief of it ; backing 
his opinion with a score of pat sentences from Greek and 
Roman authorities (of which kind of learning he made rather 
an ostentatious display), and scornfully vaunting the very 
arts and meannesses by which fools were to be made to 
follow him, opponents to be bribed or silenced, doubters 
converted, and enemies overawed. 

“I am Diogenes,” says Esmond, laughing, ‘‘that is taken 
up for a ride in Alexander’s chariot. I have no desire to 
vanquish Darius or to tame Bucephalus. I do not want 
what you want, a great name or a high place : to have them 
would bring me no pleasure. But my moderation is taste, not 
virtue ; and I know that what I do want is as vain as that 
which you long after. Do not grudge me my vanity, if I 
allow yours : or rather, let us laugh at both indiflerently, and 
at ourselves, and at each other.” 

“ If your charmer holds out,” says St John, “ at this rate she 
may keep you twenty years besieging her, and surrender by 
the time you are seventy, and she is old enough to be a grand- 
mother. I do not say the pursuit of a particular woman is not 
as pleasant a pastime as any other kind of hunting,” he added : 
“only, for my part, I find the game wont run long enough. 
They knock under too soon — ^that’s the fault I find with ’em.” 

“ The game which you pursue is in the habit of being caught, 
and used to being pulled down,” says Mr Esmond. 

But Dulcinea del Toboso is peerless, eh ? ” says the other. 


345 


Henry Esmond 

Well, honest Harry, go and attack windmills — perhaps thou 
art not more mad than other people,” St John added, with a 
sigh. 


Chapter III 

A Paper out of the Spectator 

Doth any young gentleman of my progeny, who may read 
his own grandfather’s papers, chance to be presently suffering 
under the passion of Love ? There is a humiliating cure, but 
one that is easy and almost specific for the malady — which is, 
to try an alibi. Esmond went away from his mistress and was 
cured a half-dozen times ; he came back to her side, and 
instantly fell ill again of the fever. He vowed that he could 
leave her and think no more of her, and so he could pretty 
well, at least, succeed in quelling that rage and longing he 
had whenever he was with her ; but as soon as he returned he 
was as bad as ever again. Truly a ludicrous and pitiable 
object, at least exhausting everybody’s pity but his dearest 
mistress’. Lady Castlewood’s, in whose tender breast he re- 
posed all his dreary confessions, and who never tired of hear- 
ing him and pleading for him. 

Sometimes Esmond would think there was hope. Then 
again he would be plagued with despair, at some impertinence 
or coquetry of his mistress. For days they would be like 
brother and sister, or the dearest friends — she, simple, 
fond, and charming — he, happy beyond measure at her good 
behaviour. But this would all vanish on a sudden. Either 
he would be too pressing, and hint his love, when she would 
rebuff him instantly, and give his vanity a box on the ear ; or 
he would be jealous, and with perfect good reason, of some 
new admirer that had sprung up, or some rich young gentle- 
man newly arrived in the town, that this incorrigible flirt 
would set her nets and baits to draw in. If Esmond re- 
monstrated, the little rebel would say, ‘‘Who are you.? I 
shall go my own way, sirrah, and that way is towards a 
husband, and I don’t want you on the way. I am for your 
betters. Colonel, for your betters : do you hear that ? You 


346 The History of 

might do if you had an estate and were younger : only eight 
years older than I, you say ! pish, you are a hundred years 
older. You are an old old Graveairs, and I should make you 
miserable, that would be the only comfort I should have 
in marrying you. But you have not money enough to keep 
a cat decently after you have paid your man his wages, and 
your landlady her bill. Do you think I am going to live in a 
lodging, and turn the mutton at a string whilst your honour 
nurses the baby ? Fiddlestick, and why did you not get this 
nonsense knocked out of your head when you were in the 
wars ? You are come back more dismal and dreary than 
ever. You and mamma are fit for each other. You might 
be Darby and Joan, and play cribbage to the end of your 
lives.” 

** At least you own to your worldliness, my poor Trix,” 
says her mother. 

Worldliness ! Oh, my pretty lady! Do you think that 
I am a child in the nursery, and to be frightened by Bogey ? 
Worldliness, to be sure ; and pray, madam, where is the 
harm of wishing to be comfortable ? When you are gone, 
you dearest old woman, or when I am tired of you and have 
run away from you, where shall I go ? Shall I go and be 
head nurse to my Popish sister-in-law, take the children their 
physic, and whip ’em, and put ’em to bed when they are 
naughty ? Shall I be Castlewood’s upper servant, and perhaps 
marry Tom Tusher ? Merci! I have been long enough 
Frank’s humble servant. Why am I not a man ? I have ten 
times his brains, and had I worn the — well, don’t let your 
Ladyship be frightened — had I worn a sword and periwig 
instead of this mantle and commode to which nature has con- 
demned me — (though ’tis a pretty stuff, too — Cousin Esmond I 
you will go to the Exchange to-morrow, and get the exact 
counterpart of this ribbon, sir ; do you hear ?) — I would have 
made our name talked about. So would Graveairs here have 
made something out of our name if he had represented it. 
My Lord Graveairs would have done very well. Yes, you 
have a very pretty way, and would have made a very decent, 
grave speaker.” And here she began to imitate Esmond’s way 
of carrying himself and speaking to his face, and so ludicrously 


Henry Esmond 347 

that his mistress burst out a-laughing, and even he himself 
could see there was some likeness in the fantastical, malicious 
caricature. 

‘‘Yes,” says she, “I solemnly vow, own, and confess, that 
I want a good husband. Where’s the harm of one ? My face 
is my fortune. Who’ll come ? — buy, buy, buy ! I cannot 
toil, neither can I spin, but I can play twenty-three games on 
the cards. I can dance the last dance, I can hunt the stag, 
and I think I could shoot flying. I can talk as wicked as any 
woman of my years, and know enough stories to amuse a 
sulky husband for at least one thousand and one nights. I 
have a pretty taste for dress, diamonds, gambling, and old 
china. I love sugar-plums, Malines lace (that you brought 
me. Cousin, is very pretty), the opera, and everything that is 
useless and costly. I have got a monkey and a little black 
boy — Pompey, sir, go and give a dish of chocolate to Colonel 
Graveairs — and a parrot and a spaniel, and I must have a 
husband. Cupid, you hear ? ” 

“ Iss, Missis ! ” says Pompey, a little grinning negro Lord 
Peterborow gave her, with a bird of paradise in his turbant, 
and a collar with his mistress’ name on it. 

“ Iss, Missis ! ” says Beatrix, imitating the child. “ And if 
husband not come, Pompey must go fetch one.” 

And Pompey went away grinning with his chocolate tray 
as Miss Beatrix ran up to her mother and ended her sally of 
mischief in her common way, with a kiss — no wonder that 
upon paying such a penalty her fond judge pardoned her. 

When Mr Esmond came home, his health was still 
shattered ; and he took a lodging near to his mistresses, 
at Kensington, glad enough to be served by them, and to 
see them day after day. He was enabled to see a little 
company — and of the sort he liked best. Mr Steele and Mr 
Addison both did him the honour to visit him, and drank many 
a glass of good claret at his lodging ; whilst their entertainer, 
through his wound, was kept to diet-drink and gruel. These 
gentlemen were Whigs, and great admirers of my Lord Duke 
of Marlborough ; and Esmond was entirely of the other party. 
But their different views of politics did not prevent the gentle- 


348 The History of 

men from agreeing in private, nor from allowing, on one 
evening when Esmond’s kind old patron, Lieutenant-General 
Webb, with a stick and a crutch, hobbled up to the Colonel’s 
lodging (which was prettily situate at Knightsbridge, between 
London and Kensington, and looking over the Gardens), that 
the Lieutenant-General was a noble and gallant soldier — and 
even that he had been hardly used in the Wynendael affair. 
He took his revenge in talk, that must be confessed ; and if 
Mr Addison had had a mind to write a poem about Wynen- 
dael, he might have heard from the commander’s own lips the 
story a hundred times over. 

Mr Esmond, forced to be quiet, betook himself to litera- 
ture for a relaxation, and composed his comedy, whereof the 
prompter’s copy lieth in my walnut escritoire, sealed up and 
docketed, ‘‘ The Faithful Fool, a Comedy, as it was performed 
by Her Majesty’s Servants.” ’Twas a very sentimental piece ; 
and Mr Steele, who had more of that kind of sentiment than 
Mr Addison, admired it, whilst the other rather sneered at the 
performance ; though he owned that, here and there, it con- 
tained some pretty strokes. He was bringing out his own play 
of “ Cato ” at the time, the blaze of which quite extinguished 
Esmond’s farthing candle ; and his name was never put to the 
piece, which was printed as by a Person of Quality. Only 
nine copies were sold, though Mr Dennis, the great critic, 
praised it, and said ’twas a work of great merit ; and Colonel 
Esmond had the whole impression burned one day in a rage, 
by Jack Lockwood, his man. 

All this comedy was full of bitter satiric strokes against a 
certain young lady. The plot of the piece was quite a new one. 
A young woman was represented with a great number of suitors, 
selecting a pert fribble of a peer, in place of the hero (but ill- 
acted, I think, by Mr Wilks, the Faithful Fool), who persisted 
in admiring her. In the fifth act, Teraminta was made to dis- 
cover the merits of Eugenio (the F. F.), and to feel a partiality 
for him too late ; for he announced that he had bestowed his 
hand and estate upon Rosaria, a country lass, endowed with 
every virtue. But it must be owned that the audience yawned 
through the play ; and that it perished on the third night, 
with only half a dozen persons to behold its agonies. Esmond 


349 


Henry Esmond 

1 and his two mistresses came to the first night, and Miss 
Beatrix fell asleep ; whilst her mother, who had not been to a 
play since King James the Second’s time, thought the piece, 
though not brilliant, had a very pretty moral. 

Mr Esmond dabbled in letters, and wrote a deal of prose 
: and verse at this time of leisure. When displeased with the 
I conduct of Miss Beatrix, he would compose a satire, in which 
he relieved his mind. When smarting under the faithlessness 
j of women, he dashed off a copy of verses, in which he held 
I the whole sex up to scorn. One day, in one of these moods, 
he made a little joke, in which (swearing him to secrecy) he 
j got his friend Dick Steele to help him ; and, composing a 
paper, he had it printed exactly like Steele’s paper, and by 
his printer, and laid on his mistress’ breakfast - table the 
[ following — 


Spectator. 

“ No. 341. Tuesday, April I, 1712. 

Mutato nomine de te Fabula narratur. — Horace. 

Thyself the moral of the Fable see. — Creech. 

“ Jocasta is known as a woman of learning and fashion, and 
as one of the most amiable persons of this court and country. 
She is at home two mornings of the week, and all the wits and 
a few of the beauties of London flock to her assemblies. 
When she goes abroad to Tunbridge or the Bath, a retinue of 
adorers rides the journey with her; and besides the London 
beaux, she has a crowd of admirers at the Wells, the polite 
amongst the natives of Sussex and Somerset pressing round 
her tea-tables, and being anxious for a nod from her chair. 
Jocasta’s acquaintance is thus very numerous. Indeed, ’tis 
one smart writer’s work to keep her visiting-book — a strong 
footman is engaged to carry it ; and it would require a much 
stronger head even than Jocasta’s own to remember the names 
of all her dear friends. 

“Either at Epsom Wells or Tunbridge (for of this important 
matter Jocasta cannot be certain) it was her Ladyship’s fortune 


35 ° 


The History of 

to become acquainted with a young gentleman, whose conver- 
sation was so sprightly, and manners amiable, that she invited 
the agreeable young spark to visit her if he ever came to 
London, where her house in Spring Garden should be open to 
him. Charming as he was, and without any manner of doubt 
a pretty fellow, Jocasta hath such a regiment of the like con- 
tinually marching round her standard, that ’tis no wonder her 
attention is distracted amongst them. And so, though this 
gentleman made a considerable impression upon her, and 
touched her heart for at least three and twenty minutes, it 
must be owned that she has forgotten his name. He is a 
dark man, and may be eight and twenty years old. His dress 
is sober, though of rich materials. He has a mole on his fore- 
head over his left eye ; has a blue ribbon to his cane and 
sword, and wears his own hair. 

“ Jocasta was much flattered by beholding her admirer (for 
that everybody admires who sees her is a point which she 
never can for a moment doubt) in the next pew to her at 
St James’s Church last Sunday ; and the manner in which 
he appeared to go to sleep during the sermon — though from 
under his fringed eyelids it was evident he was casting glances 
of respectful rapture towards Jocasta — deeply moved and 
interested her. On coming out of church he found his way 
to her chair, and made her an elegant bow as she stepped into 
it. She saw him at Court afterwards, where he carried him- 
self with a most distinguished air, though none of her ac- 
quaintances knew his name ; and the next night he was at the 
play, where her Ladyship was pleased to acknowledge him 
from the side-box. 

“ During the whole of the comedy she racked her brains so 
to remember his name that she did not hear a word of the 
piece ; and having the happiness to meet him once more in the 
lobby of the playhouse, she went up to him in a flutter, and 
bade him remember that she kept two nights in the week, and 
that she longed to see him at Spring Garden. 

‘‘ He appeared on Tuesday, in a rich suit, showing a very 
fine taste both in the tailor and wearer ; and though a knot of 
us were gathered round the charming Jocasta, fellows who 
pretended to know every face upon the town, not one could 


351 


Henry Esmond 

tell the gentleman’s name in reply to Jocasta’s eager inquiries, 
flung to the right and left of her as he advanced up the 
room with a bow that would become a duke. 

“ Jocasta acknowledged this salute with one of those smiles 
and curtseys of which that lady hath the secret. She curtseys 
with a languishing air, as if to say, ‘ You are come at last. I 
have been pining for you : ’ and then she finishes her victim 
with a killing look, which declares : ‘ O Philander ! I have no 
eyes but for you.’ Camilla hath as good a curtsey perhaps, 
and Thalestris much such another look; but the glance and 
the curtsey together belong to Jocasta of all the English 
beauties alone. 

“ ‘Welcome to London, sir,’ says she. ‘One can see you 
are from the country by your looks.’ She would have 
said, ‘ Epsom,’ or ‘ Tunbridge,’ had she remembered rightly 
at which place she had met the stranger ; but, alas ! she 
had forgotten. 

“ The gentleman said, ‘ He had been in town but three 
days ; and one of his reasons for coming hither was to have 
the honour of paying his court to Jocasta.’ 

“ She said, ‘ The waters had agreed with her but in- 
differently.’ 

“ ‘ The waters were for the sick,’ the gentleman said : ‘ the 
young and beautiful came but to make them sparkle. And as 
the clergyman read the service on Sunday,’ he added, ‘ your 
Ladyship reminded me of the angel that visited the pool.’ A 
murmur of approbation saluted this sally. Manilio, who is a 
wit when he is not at cards, was in such a rage that he revoked 
when he heard it. 

“ Jocasta was an angel visiting the waters ; but at which of 
the Bethesdas ? She was puzzled more and more ; and, as her 
way always is, looked the more innocent and simple, the more 
artful her intentions were. 

“‘We were discoursing,’ says she, ‘about spelling of 
names and words when you came. Why should we say goold 
and write gold, and call china chayney, and Cavendish Candish, 
and Cholmondeley Chumley ? If we call Pulteney Poltney, 

why shouldn’t we call poultry pultry — and ’ 

‘“Such an enchantress as your Ladyship,’ says he, ‘is 


352 The History of 

mistress of all sorts of spells.’ But this was Dr Swift’s pun, 
and we all knew it. 

“ ‘ And — and how do you spell your name ^ ’ says she, com- 
ing to the point at length *, for this sprightly conversation had 
lasted much longer than is here set down, and been carried on 
through at least three dishes of tea. 

“ ‘ Oh, madam,’ says he, ‘ I spell my name with the And 
laying down his dish, my gentleman made another elegant 
bow, and was gone in a moment. 

‘‘ Jocasta hath had no sleep since this mortification, and the 
stranger’s disappearance. If balked in anything she is sure to 
lose her health and temper ; and we, her servants, suffer, as 
usual, during the angry fits of our Queen. Can you help us, 
Mr Spectator, who know everything, to read this riddle for 
her, and set at rest all our minds ? We find in her list, 
Mr Berty, Mr Smith, Mr Pike, Mr Tyler — who may be Mr 
Bertie, Mr Smyth, Mr Pyke, Mr Tiler, for what we know. 
She hath turned away the clerk of her visiting-book, a poor 
fellow with a great family of children. Read me this riddle, 
good Mr Shortface, and oblige your admirer — 

“ CEdipus.” 

“The Trumpet Coffee-House, Whitehall. 

“ Mr Spectator, — I am a gentleman but little acquainted 
with the town, though I have had a university education, and 
passed some years serving my country abroad, where my name 
is better known than in the coffee-houses and St James’s. 

“ Two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty estate 
in the county of Kent; and being at Tunbridge Wells last 
summer, after my mourning was over, and on the look-out, if 
truth must be told, for some young lady who would share 
with me the solitude of my great Kentish house, and be kind 
to my tenantry (for whom a woman can do a great deal more 
good than the best-intentioned man can), I was greatly fascinated 
by a young lady of London, who was the toast of all the com- 
pany at the Wells. Everyone knows Saccharissa’s beauty ; 
and I think, Mr Spectator, no one better than herself. 

“ My table-book informs me that I danced no less than 


353 


Henry Esmond 

seven-and-twenty sets with her at the Assembly. I treated 
her to the fiddles twice. I was admitted on several days to 
her lodging, and received by her with a great deal of distinc- 
tion, and, for a time, was entirely her slave. It was only 
when I found, from common talk of the company at the Wells, 
and, from narrowly watching one, who I once thought of ask- 
ing the most sacred question a man can put to a woman, that 
I became aware how unfit she was to be a country gentleman’s 
wife ; and that this fair creature was but a heartless worldly 
jilt, playing with affections that she never meant to return, 
and, indeed, incapable of returning them. ’Tis admiration 
such women want, not love that touches them ; and I can con- 
ceive, in her old age, no more wretched creature than this lady 
will be, when her beauty hath deserted her, when her admirers 
have left her, and she hath neither friendship nor religion to 
console her. 

‘‘ Business calling me to London, I went to St James’s 
Church last Sunday, and there opposite me sat my beauty of 
the Wells. Her behaviour during the whole service was so 
pert, languishing, and absurd ; she flirted her fan, and ogled 
and eyed me in a manner so indecent, that I was obliged to 
shut my eyes, so as actually not to see her, and whenever I 
opened them beheld hers (and very bright they are) still star- 
ing at me. I fell in with her afterwards at Court, and at the 
playhouse ; and here nothing would satisfy her but she must 
elbow through the crowd and speak to me, and invite me to 
the assembly, which she holds at her house, not very far from 
Ch-r-ng Cr-ss. 

‘‘ Having made her a promise to attend, of course I kept 
my promise ; and found the young widow in the midst of a 
half-dozen of card-tables, and a crowd of wits and admirers. 
I made the best bow I could, and advanced towards her ; and 
saw by a peculiar puzzled look in her face, though she tried 
to hide her perplexity, that she had forgotten even my name. 

‘‘ Her talk, artful as it was, convinced me that I had guessed 
aright. She turned the conversation most ridiculously upon 
the spelling of names and words ; and I replied with as 
ridiculous fulsome compliments as I could pay her : indeed, 
one in which I compared her to an angel visiting the sick wells, 


354 The History of 

went a little too far ; nor should I have employed it, but that 
the allusion came from the Second Lesson last Sunday, which 
we both had heard, and I was pressed to answer her. 

“Then she came to the question, which I knew was await- 
ing me, and asked how I spelt my name } ‘ Madam,’ says I, 

turning on my heel, ‘ I spell it with a y.’ And so I left her, 
wondering at the light-heartedness of the town-people, who 
forget and make friends so easily, and resolved to look else- 
where for a partner for your constant reader. 

“ Cymon Wyldoats. 

“You know my real name, Mr Spectator, in which there is 
no such a letter as hupstlon. But if the lady, whom I have 
called Saccharissa, wonders that I appear no more at the tea- 
table, she is hereby respectfully informed the reason v.” 

The above is a parable, whereof the writer will now 
expound the meaning. Jocasta was no other than Miss 
Esmond, Maid of Honour to Her Majesty. She had told 
Mr Esmond this little story of having met a gentleman some- 
where, and forgetting his name, when the gentleman, with no 
such malicious intentions as those of “ Cymon ” in the above 
fable, made the answer simply as above ; and we all laughed 
to think how little Mistress Jocasta-Beatrix had profited by 
her artifice and precautions. 

As for Cymon, he was intended to represent yours and her 
very humble servant, the writer of the apologue and of this 
story, which we had printed on a Spectator paper at Mr 
Steele’s office, exactly as those famous journals were printed, 
and which was laid on the table at breakfast in place of the 
real newspaper. Mistress Jocasta, who had plenty of wit, 
could not live without her Spectator to her tea ; and this sham 
Spectator was intended to convey to the young woman that she 
herself was a flirt, and that Cymon was a gentleman of honour 
and resolution, seeing all her faults, and determined to break 
the chains once and for ever. 

For though enough had been said about this love-business 
already — enough, at least, to prove to the writer’s heirs what 
a silly fond fool their old grandfather was, who would like 
them to consider him as a very wise old gentleman j yet not 


355 


Henry Esmond 

near all has been told concerning this matter, which, if it were 
allowed to take in Esmond’s journal the space it occupied in 
his time, would weary his kinsmen and women of a hundred 
years’ time beyond all endurance ; and form such a diary of 
folly and drivelling, raptures and rage, as no man of ordinary 
vanity would like to leave behind him. 

; The truth is, that, whether she laughed at him or en- 
! couraged him ; whether she smiled or was cold, and turned 
I her smiles on another ; worldly and ambitious as he knew her 
1 to be ; hard and careless, as she seemed to grow with her 
I Court life, and a hundred admirers that came to her and left 
! her ; Esmond, do what he would, could never get Beatrix out 
of his mind ; thought of her constantly at home or away. If 
he read his name in a Gazette, or escaped the shot of a cannon- 
ball or a greater danger in the campaign, as has happened to 
him more than once, the instant thought after the honour 
achieved or the danger avoided, was, ‘‘What will she say of 
it ” “ Will this distinction or the idea of this peril elate her 

or touch her, so as to be better inclined towards me ? ” He 
could no more help this passionate fidelity of temper than he 
could help the eyes he saw with — one or the other seemed a 
part of his nature ; and knowing every one of her faults as 
well as the keenest of her detractors, and the folly of an 
i attachment to such a woman, of which the fruition could 
never bring him happiness for above a week, there was yet 
I a charm about this Circe from which the poor deluded gentle- 
man could not free himself; and for a much longer period 
than Ulysses (another middle-aged officer, who had travelled 
I much, and been in the foreign wars), Esmond felt himself 
' enthralled and besotted by the wiles of this enchantress. 

Quit her ! He could no more quit her, as the Cymon of 
i this story was made to quit his false one, than he could lose 
his consciousness of yesterday. She had but to raise her 
I finger, and he would come back from ever so far ; she had 
I but to say I have discarded such and such an adorer, and the 
I poor infatuated wretch would be sure to come and roder about 
; her mother’s house, willing to be put on the ranks of suitors, 

I though he knew he might be cast off the next week. If he 
were like Ulysses in his folly, at least she was in so far like 


356 The History of 

Penelope that she had a crowd of suitors, and undid day after 
day and night after night the handiwork of fascination and the 
web of coquetry with which she was wont to allure and enter- 
tain them. 

Part of her coquetry may have come from her position about 
the Court, where the beautiful Maid of Honour was the light 
about which a thousand beaux came and fluttered ; where she 
was sure to have a ring of admirers round her, crowding to 
listen to her repartees as much as to admire her beauty ; and 
where she spoke and listened to much free talk, such as one 
never would have thought the lips or ears of Rachel Castle- 
wood’s daughter would have uttered or heard. When in wait- 
ing at Windsor or Hampton, the Court ladies and gentlemen 
would be making riding parties together ; Mrs Beatrix in a 
horseman’s coat and hat, the foremost after the staghounds and 
over the park fences, a crowd of young fellows at her heels. 
If the English country ladies at this time were the most pure 
and modest of any ladies in the world — the English town and 
Court ladies permitted themselves words and behaviour that 
were neither modest nor pure ; and claimed, some of them, a 
freedom which those who love that sex most would never wish 
to grant them. The gentlemen of my family that follow after 
me (for I don’t encourage the ladies to pursue any such studies) 
may read in the works of Mr Congreve, and Dr Swift and 
others, what was the conversation and what the habits of our 
time. 

The most beautiful woman in England in 1712, when Esmond 
returned to this country, a lady of high birth, and though of 
no fortune to be sure, with a thousand fascinations of wit and 
manners, Beatrix Esmond was now six-and-twenty years old, 
and Beatrix Esmond still. Of her hundred adorers she had 
not chosen one for a husband ; and those who had asked had 
been jilted by her ; and more still had left her. A succession 
of near ten years’ crops of beauties had come up since her time, 
and had been reaped by proper husbandman., if we may make an 
agricultural simile, and had been housed comfortably long ago. 
Her own contemporaries were sober mothers by this time ; 
girls with not a tithe of her charms, or her wit, having made 
good matches, and now claiming precedence over the spinster 


Henry Esmond 357 

who but lately had derided and outshone them. The young 
beauties were beginning to look down on Beatrix as an old 
maid, and sneer, and call her one of Charles the Second’s 
ladies, and ask whether her portrait was not in the Hampton 
Court Gallery ^ But still she reigned, at least in one man’s 
opinion, superior over all the little misses that were the toasts 
of the young lads ; and in Esmond’s eyes was ever perfectly 
lovely and young. 

Who knows how many were nearly made happy by possess- 
ing her, or, rather, how many were fortunate in escaping this 
siren ? ’Tis a marvel to think that her mother was the 
purest and simplest woman in the whole world, and that this 
girl should have been born from her. I, am inclined to fancy 
my mistress, who never said a harsh word to her children (and 
but twice or thrice only to one person), must have been too 
fond and pressing with the maternal authority : for her son and 
her daughter both revolted early ; nor after their first flight 
from the nest could they ever be brought back quite to the 
fond mother’s bosom. Lady Castlewood, and perhaps it was 
as well, knew little of her daughter’s life and real thoughts. 
How was she to apprehend what passes in Queens’ ante- 
chambers and at Court tables ? Mrs Beatrix asserted her own 
authority so resolutely that her mother quickly gave in. The 
Maid of Honour had her own equipage ; went from home and 
came back at her own will : her mother was alike powerless to 
resist her to lead her, or to command or to persuade her. 

She had been engaged once, twice, thrice, to be married, 
Esmond believed. When he quitted home, it hath been said, 
she was promised to my Lord Ashburnham, and now, on his 
return, behold his Lordship was just married to Lady Mary 
Butler, the Duke of Ormond’s daughter, and his fine houses, 
and twelve thousand a year of fortune, for which Miss Beatrix 
had rather coveted him, was out of her power. To her Esmond 
could say nothing in regard to the breaking of this match ; 
and asking his mistress about it, all Lady Castlewood answered 
was: “ Do not speak to me about it, Harry. I cannot tell you 
how or why they parted, and I fear to inquire. I have told 
you before, that with all her kindness, and wit, and generosity, 
and that sort of splendour of nature she has, I can say but little 


358 The History of 

good of poor Beatrix, and look with dread at the marriage she 
will form. Her mind is fixed on ambition only, and making a 
great figure ; and, this achieved, she will tire of it as she does 
of everything. Heaven help her husband, whoever he shall 
be ! My Lord Ashburnham was a most excellent young man, 
gentle and yet manly, of very good parts, so they told me, and 
as my little conversation would enable me to judge : and a kind 
temper — kind and enduring Vm sure he must have been, from 
all he had to endure. But he quitted her at last, from some 
crowning piece of caprice or tyranny of hers ; and now he has 
married a young woman that will make him a thousand times 
happier than my poor girl ever could.” 

The rupture, whatever its cause was (I heard the scandal, 
but indeed shall not take pains to repeat at length in this 
diary the trumpery coffee-house story), caused a good deal 
of low talk; and Mr Esmond was present at my Lord’s 
appearance at the Birthday with his bride, over whom the 
revenge that Beatrix took was to look so imperial and lovely 
that the modest cast down young lady could not appear beside 
her, and Lord Ashburnham, who had his reasons for wishing 
to avoid her, slunk away quite shamefaced, and very early. 
This time his Grace the Duke of Hamilton, whom Esmond 
had seen about her before, was constant at Miss Beatrix’s 
side ; he was one of the most splendid gentlemen of Europe, 
accomplished by books, by travel, by long command of the 
best company, distinguished as a statesman, having been am- 
bassador in IGng William’s time, and a noble speaker in the 
Scots Parliament, where he had led the party that was against 
the Union, and though now five or six-and-forty years of age, 
a gentleman so high in stature, accomplished in wit, and 
favourable in person, that he might pretend to the hand of 
any Princess in Europe. 

“ Should you like the Duke for a cousin ? ” says Mr Secre- 
tary St John, whispering to Colonel Esmond in French, “ it 
appears that the widower consoles himself.” 

But to return to our little Spectator paper and the conversa- 
tion which grew out of it. Miss Beatrix at first was quite bit 
(as the phrase of that day was) and did not “ smoke ” the 
authorship of the story ; indeed Esmond had tried to imitate 


359 


Henry Esmond 

as well as he could Mr Steele’s manner (as for the other 
author of the spectator, his prose style I think is altogether 
inimitable) ; and Dick, who was the idlest and best-natured of 
men, would have let the piece pass into his journal and go to 
posterity as one of his own lucubrations, but that Esmond did 
not care to have a lady’s name whom he loved sent forth to 
the world in a light so unfavourable. Beatrix pished and 
psha’d over the paper ; Colonel Esmond watching with no 
little interest her countenance as she read it. 

‘‘ How stupid your friend Mr Steele becomes ! ” cries Miss 
Beatrix. “ Epsom and Tunbridge ! Will he never have done 
with Epsom and Tunbridge, and with beaux at church, and 
Jocastas and Lindamiras ? Why does he not call women Nelly 
and Betty, as their godfathers and godmothers did for them in 
their baptism ? ” 

“ Beatrix, Beatrix ! ” says her mother, ‘‘ speak gravely of 
grave things.” 

‘‘ Mamma thinks the Church Catechism came from heaven, 
I believe,” says Beatrix, with a laugh, ** and was brought 
down by a bishop from a mountain. Oh, how I used to 
break my heart over it ! Besides, I had a Popish godmother, 
mamma j why did you give me one ? ” 

“ I gave you the Queen’s name,” says her mother, blushing. 
“ And a very pretty name it is,” said somebody else. 

Beatrix went on reading: “Spell my name with ay — why, 
you wretch,” says she, turning round to Colonel Esmond, 
“ you have been telling my story to Mr Steele — or stop — you 
have written the paper yourself to turn me into ridicule. For 
shame, sir ! ” 

Poor Mr Esmond felt rather frightened, and told a truth, 
which was nevertheless an entire falsehood. “ Upon my 
honour,” says he, “ I have not even read the spectator of this 
morning.” Nor had he, for that was not the spectator, but a 
sham newspaper put in its place. 

She went on reading : her face rather flushed as she read. 
“ No,” she says, “ I think you couldn’t have written it. I 
think it must have been Mr Steele when he was drunk — and 
afraid of his horrid vulgar wife. Whenever I see an enormous 
compliment to a w'oman, and some outrageous panegyric about 


360 The History of 

female virtue, I always feel sure that the Captain and his better 
half have fallen out over-night, and that he has been brought 
home tipsy, or has been found out in ” 

‘‘ Beatrix ! ” cries the Lady Castle wood. 

“ Well, mamma ! Do not cry out before you are hurt. I 
am not going to say anything wrong. I won’t give you more 
annoyance than I can help, you pretty, kind mamma. Yes, 
and your little Trix is a naughty little Trix, and she leaves 
undone those things which she ought to have done, and 
does those things which she ought not to have done, and 

there's well now, I won’t go on. Yes, I will, upless 

you kiss me.” And with this the young lady lays aside her 
paper, and runs up to her mother and performs a variety of 
embraces with her Ladyship, saying as plain as eyes could 
speak to Mr Esmond, “ There, sir : would not you like to 
play the very same pleasant game ? ” 

Indeed, madam, I would,” says he. 

‘‘ Would what ? ” asked Miss Beatrix. 

“ What you meant when you looked at me in that provok- 
ing way,” answers Esmond. 

“ What a confessor ! ” cries Beatrix, with a laugh. 

“ What is it Henry would like, my dear ? ” asks her mother, 
the kind soul, who was always thinking what we would like, 
and how she could please us. 

The girl runs up to her. ‘‘ Oh, you silly kind mamma,” 
she says, kissing her again, “ that’s what Harry would like ; ” 
and she broke out into a great joyful laugh ; and Lady Castle- 
wood blushed as bashful as a maid of sixteen. 

“ Look at her, Harry,” whispers Beatrix, running up and 
speaking in her sweet low tones. “ Doesn’t the blush become 
her ? Isn’t she pretty ? She looks younger than I am, and I 
am sure she is a hundred million thousand times better.” 

Esmond’s kind mistress left the room, carrying her blushes 
away with her. 

“If we girls at Court could grow such roses as that,” con- 
tinues Beatrix, with her laugh, “ what wouldn’t we do to 
preserve ’em ? We’d clip their stalks and put ’em in salt and 
water. But those flowers don’t bloom at Hampton Court and 
Windsor, Henry.” She paused for a minute, and the smile 


Henry Esmond 361 


fading away from her April face, gave place to a menacing 
shower of tears. “ Oh, how good she is, Harry ! ” Beatrix 
went on to say. ‘‘ Oh, what a saint she is ! Her goodness 
frightens me. I’m not fit to live with her. I should be better 
I think if she were not so perfect. She has had a great sorrow 
in her life and a great secret ; and repented of it. It could 
not have been my father’s death. She talks freely about that ; 
nor could she have loved him very much — though who knows 
what we women do love, and why ? ” 

‘‘What, and why, indaed ! ” says Mr Esmond. 

“No one knows,” Beatrix went on, without noticing this 
interruption except by a look, “ what my mother’s life is. 
She hath been at early prayer this morning : she passes hours 
in her closet ; if you were to follow her thither, you\yould 
find her at prayers now. She tends the poor of the place — 
the horrid dirty poor ! She sits through the curate’s sermons 
— oh, those dreary sermons ! And you see, on a heau dire; 
but good as they are, people like her are not fit to commune 
with us of the world. There is always, as it were, a third 
person present, even when I and my mother are alone. She 
can’t be frank with me quite ; who is always thinking of the 
next world, and of her guardian angel, perhaps that’s in com- 
pany. Oh, Harry, I’m jealous of that guardian angel ! ” here 
broke out Mistress Beatrix. “ It’s horrid, I know ; but my 
mother’s life is all for heaven, and mine — all for earth. We 
can never be friends quite ; and then she cares more for 
Frank’s little finger than she does for me — I know she does : 
and she loves you, sir, a great deal too much ; and I hate you 
for it. I would have had her all to myself ; but she wouldn’t. 
In my childhood it was my father she loved — (oh, how could 
she ? I remember him kind and handsome, but so stupid, and 
not being able to speak after drinking wine). And then it was 
Frank ; and now it is heaven and the clergyman. How I 
would have loved her ! From a child I used to be in a rage 
that she loved anybody but me ; but she loved you all better — 
all, I know she did. And now, she talks of the blessed con- 
solation of religion. Dear soul ! she thinks she is happier for 
believing, as she must, that we are all of us wicked and miser- 
able sinners ; and this world is only a tied-h-terre for the good. 


362 The History of 

where^they stay for a night, as we do, coming from Walcote, 
at that great, dreary, uncomfortable Hounslow Inn, in those 
horrid beds — oh, do you remember those horrid beds ? — 
and the chariot comes and fetches them to heaven the next 
morning.” 

“ Hush, Beatrix ! ” says Mr Esmond. 

“Hush, indeed. You are a hypocrite, too, Henry, with 
your grave airs and your glum face. We are all hypocrites. 

0 dear me ! We are all alone, alone, alone,” says poor 
Beatrix, her fair breast heaving with a sigh. 

“ It was I that writ every line of that paper, my dear,” says 
Mr Esmond. “You are not so worldly as you think yourself, 
Beatrix, and better than we believe you. The good we have 
in us we doubt of ; and the happiness that’s to our hand we 
throw away. You bend your ambition on a great marriage 
and establishment — and why ? You’ll tire of them when 
you win them ; and be no happier with a coronet on your 
coach ” 

“ Than riding pillion with Lubin to market,” says Beatrix. 
“ Thank you, Lubin ! ” 

“ I’m a dismal shepherd, to be sure,” answers Esmond, with 
a blush ; “ and require a nymph that can tuck my bed-clothes 
up, and make me water-gruel. Well, Tom Lockwood can do 
that. He took me out of the fire upon his shoulders, and 
nursed me through my illness as love will scarce ever do. 
Only good wages, and a hope of my clothes, and the contents 
of my portmanteau. How long was it that Jacob served an 
apprenticeship for Rachel ” 

“For mamma ? ” says Beatrix. “It is mamma your honour 
wants, and that I should have the happiness of calling you 
papa ? ” 

Esmond blushed again. “ I spoke of a Rachel that a shep- 
herd courted five thousand years ago ; when shepherds were 
longer lived than now. And my meaning was, that since 

1 saw you first after our separation — a child you were 
then . . .” 

“ And I put on my best stockings to captivate you, I 
remember, sir . . .” 

“ You have had my heart ever since then, such as it was ; 


Henry Esmond 363 

and such as you were, I cared for no other woman. What 
little reputation I have won, it was that you might be pleased 
with it : and indeed, it is not much ; and I think a hundred 
fools in the army have got and deserved quite as much. Was 
there something in the air of that dismal old Castlewood that 
made us all gloomy, and dissatisfied, and lonely under its 
ruined old roof? We were all so, even when together and 
united, as it seemed, following our separate schemes, each as 
we sat round the table.” 

“ Dear, dreary old place ! ” cries Beatrix. ‘‘ Mamma hath 
never had the heart to go back thither since we left it, when 
— never mind how many years ago.” And she flung back her 
curls, and looked over her fair shoulder at the mirror superbly, 
as if she said, “ Time, I defy you.” 

‘‘ Yes,” says Esmond, who had the art, as she owned, of 
divining many of her thoughts. “ You can afford to look in 
the glass still, and only be pleased by the truth it tells you. 
As for me, do you know what my scheme is ? I think of 
asking Frank to give me the Virginian estate King Charles 
gave our grandfather.” (She gave a superb curtsey, as much as 
to say, ** Our grandfather, indeed ! Thank you, Mr Bastard.”) 
‘‘ Yes, I know you are thinking of my bar-sinister, and so am 
I. A man cannot get over it in this country ; unless, indeed, 
he wears it across a king’s arms, when ’tis a highly honourable 
coat ; and I am thinking of retiring into the plantations, and 
building myself a wigwam in the woods, and perhaps, if I 
want company, suiting myself with a squaw. We will send 
your Ladyship furs over for the winter ; and, when you are 
“ old, we’ll provide you with tobacco. I am not quite clever 
enough, or not rogue enough — I know not which — for the 
Old World. I may make a place for myself in the New, 
which is not so full ; and found a family there. When you 
are a mother yourself, and a great lady, perhaps I shall send 
you over from the plantation some day a little barbarian that 
is half Esmond half Mohock, and you will be kind to him for 
his father’s sake, who was, after all, your kinsman ; and whom 
you loved a little.” 

‘‘ What folly you are talking, Harry ! ” says Miss Beatrix, 
looking with her great eyes. 


364 The History of 

‘‘ ’Tis sober earnest,” says Esmond. And, indeed, the 
scheme had been dwelling a good deal in his mind for 
some time past, and especially since his return home, when 
he found how hopeless, and even degrading to himself, his 
passion was. “ No,” says he, then : “I have tried half-a- 
dozen times now. I can bear being away from you well 
enough ; but being with you is intolerable ” (another low 
curtsey on Mistress Beatrix’s part), ‘‘ and I will go. I 
have enough to buy axes and guns for my men, and beads 
and blankets for the savages ; and I’ll go and live amongst 
them.” 

Mon amif^ she says, quite kindly, and taking Esmond’s 
hand, with an air of great compassion, “you can’t think that 
in our position anything more than our present friendship is 
possible. You are our elder brother — as such we view you, 
pitying your misfortune, not rebuking you with it. Why, 
you are old enough and grave enough to be our father. I 
always thought you a hundred years old, Harry, with your 
solemn face and grave air. I feel as a sister to you, and 
can no more. Isn’t that enough, sir ? ” And she put her face 
quite close to his — who knows with what intention 

“It’s too much,” says Esmond, turning away. “I can’t 
bear this life, and shall leave it. I shall stay, I think, to 
see you married, and then freight a ship, and call it the 
Beatrix, and bid you all ” 

Here the servant, flinging the door open, announced his 
Grace the Duke of Hamilton, and Esmond started back with 
something like an imprecation on his lips, as the nobleman 
entered, looking splendid in his star and green riband. He 
gave Mr Esmond just that gracious bow which he would have 
given to a lacquey who fetched him a chair or took his hat, 
and seated himself by Miss Beatrix, as the poor Colonel went 
out of the room with a hang-dog look. 

Esmond’s mistress was in the lower room as he passed 
downstairs. She often met him as he was coming away 
from Beatrix ; and she beckoned him into the apartment. 

“ Has she told you, Harry ? ” Lady Castlewood said. 

“ She has been very frank — very,” says Esmond. 

“ But — but about what is going to happen ? ” 


Henry Esmond 365 

“ What is going to happen ?” says he, his heart beating. 

“ His Grace the Duke of Hamilton has proposed to her,” 
says my Lady. ** He made his offer yesterday. They will 
marry as soon as his mourning is over. And you have heard 
his Grace is appointed Ambassador to Paris ; and the Ambas- 
sadress goes with him.” 


Chapter IV 

Beatrix’s New Suitor 

The gentleman whom Beatrix had selected was, to be sure, 
twenty years older than the Colonel, with whom she quarrelled 
for being too old; but this one was but a nameless adventurer, 
and the other the greatest Duke in Scotland, with pretensions 
even to a still higher title. My Lord Duke of Hamilton had, 
indeed, every merit belonging to a gentleman, and he had had 
the time to mature his accomplishments fully, being upwards 
of fifty years old when Madam Beatrix selected him for a 
bridegroom. Duke Hamilton, then Earl of Arran, had been 
educated at the famous Scottish university of Glasgow, and, 
coming to London, became a great favourite of Charles the 
Second, who made him a lord of his bedchamber, and after- 
wards appointed him Ambassador to the French King, under 
whom the Earl served two campaigns as His Majesty’s aide- 
de-camp ; and he was absent on this service when King Charles 
died. 

King James continued my Lord’s promotion — made him 
Master of the Wardrobe and Colonel of the Royal Regiment 
of Horse ; and his Lordship adhered firmly to King James, 
being of the small company that never quitted that unfortunate 
monarch till his departure out of England ; and then it was, in 
1688 namely, that he made the friendship with Colonel Francis 
Esmond, that had always been, more or less, maintained in the 
two families. 

The Earl professed a great admiration for King William 
always, but never could give him his allegiance ; and was 
engaged in more than one of the plots in the late great 


366 The History of 

King’s reign which always ended in the plotters’ discom- 
fiture, and generally in their pardon, by the magnanimity of 
the King. Lord Arran was twice prisoner in the Tower 
during this reign, undauntedly saying, when offered his 
release, upon parole not to engage against King William, 
that he would not give his word, because ‘‘ he was sure he 
could not keep it ; ” but, nevertheless, he was both times 
discharged without any trial ; and the King bore this noble 
enemy so little malice, that when his mother, the Duchess 
of Hamilton, of her own right, resigned her claim on her 
husband’s death, the Earl was, by patent signed at Loo, 1690, 
created Duke of Hamilton, Marquis of Clydesdale, and Earl 
of Arran, with precedency from the original creation. His 
Grace took the oaths and his seat in the Scottish Parliament 
in 1700; was famous there for his patriotism and eloquence, 
especially in the debates about the Union Bill, which Duke 
Hamilton opposed with all his strength, though he would not 
go the length of the Scottish gentry, who were for resisting 
it by force of arms. ’Twas said he withdrew his opposition 
all of a sudden, and in consequence of letters from the King 
at St Germains, who entreated him on his allegiance not to 
thwart the Queen his sister in this measure ; and the Duke, 
being always bent upon effecting the King’s return to his 
kingdom through a reconciliation between His Majesty and 
Queen Anne, and quite averse to his landing with arms and 
French troops, held aloof, and kept out of Scotland during 
the time when the Chevalier de St George’s descent from 
Dunkirk was projected, passing his time in England in his 
great estate in Staffordshire. 

When the Whigs went out of office in 1710, the Queen 
began to show his Grace the very greatest marks of her favour. 
He was created Duke of Brandon and Baron of Dutton in 
England ; having the Thistle already originally bestowed on 
him by King James the Second, his Grace was now promoted 
to the honour of the Garter — a distinction so great and 
illustrious, that no subject hath ever borne them hitherto 
together. When this objection was made to Her Majesty, she 
was pleased to say, ‘‘ Such a subject as the Duke of Hamilton 
has a pre-eminent claim to every mark of distinction which 


Henry Esmond 


367 


a crowned head can confer. I will henceforth wear both 
orders myself.” 

At the Chapter held at Windsor in October 17 12, the Duke 
and other knights, including Lord-Treasurer, the new-created 
Earl of Oxford and Mortimer, were installed ; and a few days 
afterwards his Grace was appointed Ambassador-Extraordinary 
to France, and his equipages, plate, and liveries commanded, 
of the most sumptuous kind, not only for His Excellency the 
Ambassador, but for her Excellency the Ambassadress, who 
was to accompany him. Her arms were already quartered on 
the coach panels, and her brother was to hasten over on the 
appointed day to give her away. 

His Lordship was a widower, having married, in 1698, 
Elizabeth, daughter of Digby Lord Gerard, by which 
I marriage great estates came into the Hamilton family ; and 
I out of these estates came, in part, that tragic quarrel which 
S ended the Duke’s career. 

I From the loss of a tooth to that of a mistress there’s no 
; pang that is not bearable. The apprehension is much more 
cruel than the certainty ; and we make up our mind to the 
misfortune when ’tis irremediable, part with the tormentor, 
and mumble our crust on t’other side of the jaws. I think 
Colonel Esmond was relieved when a ducal coach and six 
i came and whisked his charmer away out of his reach, and 
placed her in a higher sphere. As you have seen the nymph 
I in the opera-machine go up to the clouds at the end of the 
|, piece where Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, and all the divine com- 
pany of Olympians are seated, and quaver out her last song as 
a goddess; so when this portentous elevation was accomplished 
in the Esmond family, I am not sure that every one of us did 
not treat the divine Beatrix with special honours ; at least the 
saucy little beauty carried her head with a toss of supreme 
i authority, and assumed a touch-me-not air, which all her 
friends very good-humouredly bowed to. 

An old army acquaintance of Colonel Esmond’s, honest 
! Tom Trett, who had sold his company, married a wife, and 
1 turned merchant in the city, was dreadfully gloomy for a long 
I time, though living in a fine house on the river, and carrying 
on a great trade to all appearance. At length Esmond saw 


368 The History of 

his friend’s name in the Gazette as a bankrupt ; and a week 
after this circumstance my bankrupt walks into Mr Esmond’s 
lodging with a face perfectly radiant with good-humour, and 
as jolly and careless as when they had sailed from Southampr 
ton ten years before for Vigo. “ This bankruptcy,” says 
Tom, has been hanging over my head these three years ; 
the thought hath prevented my sleeping, and I have looked 
at poor Polly’s head on t’other pillow, and then towards my 
razor on the table, and thought to put an end to myself, and 
so give my woes the slip. But now we are bankrupts : Tom 
Trett pays as many shillings in the pound as he can ; his wife 
has a little cottage at Fulham, and her fortune secured to her- 
self. I am afraid neither of bailiff nor of creditor ; and for 
the last six nights have slept easy.” So it was that when 
Fortune shook her wings and left him, honest Tom cuddled 
himself up in his ragged virtue, and fell asleep. 

Esmond did not tell his friend how much his story applied 
to Esmond too ; but he laughed at it, and used it ; and having 
fairly struck his docket in this love transaction, determined to 
put a cheerful face on his bankruptcy. Perhaps Beatrix was a 
little offended at his gaiety. “ Is this the way, sir, that you 
receive the announcement of your misfortune ? ” says she, 
“ and do you come smiling before me as if you were glad 
to be rid of me } ” 

Esmond would not be put off from his good-humour, but 
told her the story of Tom Trett and his bankruptcy. “ I 
have been hankering after the grapes on the wall,” says he, 
“ and lost my temper because they were beyond my reach *, 
was there any wonder ? They’re gone now, and another has 
them — a taller man than your humble servant has won them.” 
And the Colonel made his cousin a low bow. 

“ A taller man. Cousin Esmond!” says she. “ A man of 
spirit would have scaled the wall, sir, and seized them I A 
man of courage would have fought for ’em, not gaped for 
’em.” 

‘‘ A duke has but to gape and they drop into his mouth,” 
says Esmond, with another low bow. 

Yes, sir,” says she, “ a Duke is a taller man than you. 
And why should I not be grateful to one such as his Grace, 


Henry Esmond 


369 


who gives me his heart and his great name ? It is a great gift 
he honours me with j I know ’tis a bargain between us ; and 
I accept it, and will do my utmost to perform my part of it. 
’Tis no question of sighing and philandering between a noble- 
man of his Grace’s age and a girl who hath little of that soft- 
ness in her nature. Why should I not own that I am ambitious, 
Harry Esmond ; and if it be no sin in a man to covet honour, 
why should a woman too not desire it ? Shall I be frank with 
you, Harry, and say that if you had not been down on your 
knees, and so humble, you might have fared better with me ? 
A woman of my spirit. Cousin, is to be won by gallantry, and 
not by sighs and rueful faces. All the time you are worship- 
ping and singing hymns to me, I know very well I am no 
goddess, and grow weary of the incense. So would you have 
been weary of the goddess too — when she was called Mrs 
Esmond, and got out of humour because she had not pin- 
i money enough, and was forced to go about in an old gown. 

I Eh ! Cousin, a goddess in a mob-cap, that has to make her 
I husband’s gruel, ceases to be divine — I am sure of it. I 
should have been sulky and scolded ; and of all the proud 
wretches in the world, Mr Esmond is the proudest, let me 
; tell him that. You never fall into a passion ; but you never 
i forgive, I think. Had you been a great man, you might have 
I been good-humoured ; but being nobody, sir, you are too 
great a man for me ; and I’m afraid of you. Cousin — there ! 
i and I won’t worship you, and you’ll never be happy except 
i with a woman who will. Why, after I belonged to you, and 
I after one of my tantrums, you would have put the pillow over 
I my head some night, and smothered me, as the black man does 
the woman in the play that you are so fond of. What’s the 
creature’s name ? — Desdemona. You would, you little black- 
dyed Othello .? ” 

‘‘ I think I should, Beatrix,” says the Colonel. 

‘‘ And I want no such ending. I intend to live to be a 
hundred, and to go to ten thousand routs and balls, and to 
play cards every night of my life till the year eighteen 
hundred. And I like to be the first of my company, sir; 
and I like flattery and compliments, and you give me none ; 
and I like to be made to laugh, sir, and who’s to laugh at 

2 A 


370 


The History of 

your dismal face, I should like to know ? and 1 like a coach- 
and-six or a coach-and-eight ; and I like diamonds, and a new 
gown every week ; and people to say, ‘ That’s the Duchess. 
How well her Grace looks ! Make way for Madame I’Am- 
bassadrice d’ Angleterre. Call her Excellency’s people ’ — 
that’s what I like. And as for you, you want a woman to 
bring your slippers and cap, and to sit at your feet, and cry, 

‘ O caro ! O bravo ! whilst you read your Shakespeares and 
Miltons and stuff. Mamma would have been the wife for 
you, had you been a little older, though you look ten years 
older than she does — you do, you glum-faced, blue-bearded 
little old man ! You might have sat, like Darby and Joan, 
and flattered each other, and billed and cooed like a pair of 
old pigeons on a perch. I want my wings, and to use them, 
sir.” And she spread out her beautiful arms, as if indeed she 
could fly off like the pretty “ Gawrie,” whom the man in the 
story was enamoured of. 

“ And what will your Peter Wilkins say to your flight } ” 
says Esmond, who never admired this fair creature more than 
when she rebelled and laughed at him. 

“ A duchess knows her place,” says she, with a laugh. 
“ Why, I have a son already made for me, and thirty years 
old (my Lord Arran), and four daughters. How they will 
scold, and what a rage they will be in, when I come to take 
the head of the table ! But I give them only a month to be 
angry ; at the end of that time they shall love me every one, 
and so shall Lord Arran, and so shall all his Grace’s 3cots 
vassals and followers in the Highlands. I’m bent on it ; and 
when I take a thing in my head, ’tis done. His Grace is the 
greatest gentleman in Europe, and I’ll try and make him 
happy j and, when the King comes back, you may count on 
my protection. Cousin Esmond — for come back the King will 
and shall ; and I’ll bring him back from Versailles, if he comes 
under my hoop.” 

‘‘ I hope the world will make you happy, Beatrix,” says 
Esmond, with a sigh. “ You’ll be Beatrix till you are my 
Lady Duchess — will you not .? I shall then make your Grace 
my very lowest bow.” 

“ None of these sighs and this satire. Cousin,” she says. 


371 


Henry Esmond 

“ I take his Grace’s great bounty thankfully — yes, thank- 
fully ; and will wear his honours becomingly. I do not say 
he hath touched my heart ; but he has my gratitude, obedi- 
ence, admiration — I have told him that, and no more ; and 
with that his noble heart is content. I have told him all — 
even the story of that poor creature that I was engaged to — 
and that I could not love ; and I gladly gave his word back 
to him, and jumped for joy to get back my own. I am 
twenty-five years old.” 

“ Twenty-six, my dear,” says Esmond. 

“ Twenty-five, sir — I choose to be twenty-five ; and in 
eight years no man hath ever touched my heart. Yes, you 
did once, for a little, Harry, when you came back after Lille, 
and engaging with that murderer Mohun, and saving Frank’s 
life. I thought I could like you ; and mamma begged me 
hard, on her knees, and I did — for a day. But the old 

chill came over me, Henry, and the old fear of you and 

your melancholy ; and I was glad when you went away, and 
engaged with my Lord Ashburnham, that I might hear no 

more of you, that’s the truth. You are too good for me, 

somehow. I could not make you happy, and should break 
my heart in trying, and not being able to love you. But if 
you had asked me when we gave you the sword, you might 
have had me, sir, and we both should have been miserable 
by this time. I talked with that silly lord all night just 
to vex you and mamma, and I succeeded, didn’t I ? How 
frankly we can talk of these things ! It seems a thousand 
years ago; and, though we are here sitting in the same 
room, there is a great wall between us. My dear, kind, 
faithful, gloomy old cousin. I can like now, and admire you 
too, sir, and say that you are brave, and very kind, and very 
true, and a fine gentleman for all — for all your little mishap at 
your birth,” says she, wagging her arch head. 

‘‘ And now, sir,” says she with a curtsey, ‘‘ we must have no 
more talk except when mamma is by, or his Grace is with us ; 
for he does not half like you. Cousin, and is jealous as the 
black man in your favourite play.” 

Though the very kindness of the words stabbed Mr Esmond 
with the keenest pang, he did not show his sense of the wound 


37 ^ 


The History of 

by any look of his (as Beatrix, indeed, afterwards owned to 
him), but said, with a perfect command of himself and an easy 
smile, The interview must not end yet, my dear, until I have 
had my last word. Stay, here comes your mother ” (indeed 
she came in here with her sweet anxious face, and Esmond 
going up kissed her hand respectfully). My dear lady may 
hear, too, the last words, which are no secrets, and are only a 
parting benediction accompanying a present for your marriage 
from an old gentleman your guardian ; for I feel as if I was 
the guardian of all the family, and an old fellow that is fit to 
be the grandfather of you all ; and in this character let me 
make my Lady Duchess her wedding present. They are the 
diamonds my father’s widow left me. I had thought Beatrix 
might have had them a year ago ; but they are good enough 
for a Duchess, though not bright enough for the handsomest 
woman in the world.” And he took the case out of his pocket 
in which the jewels were, and presented them to his cousin. 

She gave a cry of delight, for the stones were indeed very 
handsome, and of great value ; and the next minute the neck- 
lace was where Belinda’s cross is in Mr Pope’s admirable poem, 
and glittering on the whitest and most perfectly-shaped neck 
in all England. 

The girl’s delight at receiving these trinkets was so great, 
that after rushing to the looking-glass and examining the 
effect they produced upon that fair neck which they sur- 
rounded, Beatrix was running back with her arms extended, 
and was perhaps for paying her cousin with a price, that he 
would have liked no doubt to receive from those beautiful 
rosy lips of hers, but at this moment the door opened, and his 
Grace the bridegroom elect was announced. 

He looked very black upon Mr Esmond, to whom he made 
a very low bow indeed, and kissed the hand of each lady in 
his most ceremonious manner. He had come in his chair from 
the palace hard by, and wore his two stars of the Garter and 
the Thistle. 

“ Look, my Lord Duke,” says Mistress Beatrix, advancing 
to him, and showing the diamonds on her breast. 

“ Diamonds,” says his Grace. “ Hm ! they seem pretty.” 

** They are a present on my marriage,” says Beatrix. 



THE DIAMOND NECKLACE. ^ BOOKlll- CHAP-IV- 


f 


ti 


Henry Esmond 373 

‘‘ From Her Majesty ? ” asks the Duke. “ The Queen is 
very good.” 

‘‘ From my cousin Henry — from our cousin Henry,” cried 
both the ladies in a breath. 

“ I have not the honour of knowing the gentleman. I 
thought that my Lord Castlewood had no brother : and that 
on your Ladyship’s side there were no nephews.” 

‘‘ From our cousin, Colonel Henry Esmond, My Lord,” 
says Beatrix, taking the Colonel’s hand very bravely, ‘‘ who 
was left guardian to us by our father, and who has a hundred 
times shown his love and friendship for our family.” 

“ The Duchess of Hamilton receives no diamonds but from 
her husband, madam,” says the Duke ; “ may I pray you to 
restore these to Mr Esmond ” 

Beatrix Esmond may receive a present from our kinsman 
and benefactor, my Lord Duke,” says Lady Castlewood, with 
an air of great dignity. “ She is my daughter yet ; and if 
her mother sanctions the gift — no one else has the right to 
question it.” 

‘‘ Kinsman and benefactor ! ” says the Duke. ‘‘ I know of 
no kinsman ; and I do not choose that my wife should have 
for benefactor a ” 

“ My Lord ! ” says Colonel Esmond. 

I am not here to bandy words,” says his Grace j ‘‘ frankly 
I tell you that your visits to this house are too frequent, and 
th'it I choose no presents for the Duchess of Hamilton from 
gentlemen that bear a name they have no right to.” 

‘‘ My Lord ! ” breaks out Lady Castlewood, Mr Esmond 
hath the best right to that name of any man in the world : and 
’tis as old and as honourable as your Grace’s.” 

My Lbrd Duke smiled, and looked as if Lady Castlewood 
was mad, that was so talking to him. 

If I called him benefactor,” said my mistress, ‘‘ it is because 
he has been so to us — yes, the noblest, the truest, the bravest, 
the dearest of benefactors. He would have saved my husband’s 
life from Mohun’s sword. He did save my boy’s, and defended 
him from that villain. Are those no benefits ? ” 

‘‘ I ask Colonel Esmond’s pardon,” says his Grace, if pos- 
sible more haughty than before, “ I would say not a word 


374 


The History of 

that should give him offence, and thank him for his kindness 
to your Ladyship’s family. My Lord Mohun and I are con- 
nected, you know, by marriage — though neither by blood nor 
friendship ; but I must repeat what I said, that my wife can 
receive no presents from Colonel Esmond.” 

My daughter may receive presents from the Head of our 
House ; my daughter may thankfully take kindness from her 
father’s, her mother’s, her brother’s dearest friend ; and be 
grateful for one more benefit besides the thousand we owe 
him,” cries Lady Castlewood. “ What is a string of diamond 
stones compared to that affection he hath given us — our dearest 
preserver and benefactor ? We owe him not only Frank’s life, 
but our all — yes, our all,” says my mistress, with a heightened 
colour and a trembling voice. ‘‘ The title we bear is his, if he 
would claim it. ’Tis we who have no right to our name ! not 
he that’s too great for it. He sacrificed his name at my dying 
lord’s bedside — sacrificed it to my orphan children ; gave up 
rank and honour because he loved us so nobly. His father 
was Viscount of Castlewood and Marquis of Esmond before 
him ; and he is his father’s lawful son and true heir, and we 
are the recipients of his bounty, and he the chief of a house 
that’s as old as your own. And if he is content to forego his 
name that my child may bear it, we love him and honour him 
and bless him under whatever name he bears ” — and here the 
fond and affectionate creature would have knelt to Esmond 
again, but that he prevented her ; and Beatrix, running up to 
her with a pale face and a cry of alarm, embraced her and 
said, ‘‘ Mother, what is this ? ” 

“ ’Tis a family secret, my Lord Duke,” says Colonel Esmond; 
“ poor Beatrix knew nothing of it ; nor did my Lady till a year 
ago. And I have as good a right to resign my title as your 
Grace’s mother to abdicate hers to you.” 

“ I should have told everything to the Duke of Hamilton,” 
said my mistress, “ had his Grace applied to me for my 
daughter’s hand, and not to Beatrix. I should have spoken 
with you this very day in private, my Lord, had not your 
words brought about this sudden explanation — and now ’tis fit 
Beatrix should hear it ; and know, as I would have all the 
world know, what we owe to our kinsman and patron.” 


375 


Henry Esmond 

And then, in her touching way, and having hold of her 
daughter’s hand, and speaking to her rather than my Lord 
Duke, Lady Castlewood told the story which you know 
already — lauding up to the skies her kinsman’s behaviour. 
On his side Mr Esmond explained the reasons that seemed 
quite sufficiently cogent with him, why the succession in the 
family, as at present it stood, should not be disturbed ; and he 
should remain as he was. Colonel Esmond. 

And Marquis of Esmond, my Lord,” says his Grace, with 
a low bow. “ Permit me to ask your Lordship’s pardon for 
words that were uttered in ignorance ; and to beg for the 
favour of your friendship. To be allied to you, sir, must be 
an honour under whatever name you are known” (so his Grace 
was pleased to say) ; ‘‘ and in return for the splendid present 
you make my wife, your kinswoman, I hope you will please to 
command any service that James Douglas can perform. I shall 
never be easy until I repay you a part of my obligations at least ; 
and ere very long, and with the mission Her Majesty hath given 
me,” says the Duke, “ that may perhaps be in my power. I 
shall esteem it as a favour, my Lord, if Colonel Esmond will 
give away the bride.” 

‘‘ And if he will take the usual payment in advance, he is 
welcome,” says Beatrix, stepping up to him ; and, as Esmond 
kissed her, she whispered, ‘‘ Oh, why didn’t I know you 
before ? ” 

My Lord Duke was as hot as a flame at this salute, but said 
never a word : Beatrix made him a proud curtesy, and the two 
ladies quitted the room together. 

‘‘ When does your Excellency go for Paris ? ” asks Colonel 
Esmond. 

‘‘ As soon after the ceremony as may be,” his Grace 
answered. ‘‘ ’Tis fixed for the first of December : it cannot 
be sooner. The equipage will not be ready till then. The 
Queen intends the embassy should be very grand — and I have 
law business to settle. That ill-omened Mohun has come, or 
is coming, to London again : we are in a lawsuit about my late 
Lord Gerard’s property : and he hath sent to me to meet him.” 


37 ^ 


The History of 


Chapter V 

Mohun appears for the last time in this History 

Besides my Lord Duke of Hamilton and Brandon, who for 
family reasons had kindly promised his protection and patronage 
to Colonel Esmond, he had other great friends in power now, 
both able and willing to assist him, and he might, with such 
allies, look forward to as fortunate advancement in civil life at 
home as he had got rapid promotion abroad. His Grace was 
magnanimous enough to offer to take Mr Esmond as secretary 
on his Paris embassy, but no doubt he intended that proposal 
should be rejected ; at any rate, Esmond could not bear the 
thoughts of attending his mistress farther than the church door 
after her marriage, and so declined that offer which his generous 
rival made him. 

Other gentlemen in power were liberal at least of compli- 
ments and promises to Colonel Esmond. Mr Harley, now 
become my Lord Oxford and Mortimer, and installed Knight 
of the Garter on the same day as his Grace of Hamilton had 
received the same honour, sent to the Colonel to say that a 
seat in Parliament should be at his disposal presently, and Mr 
St John held out many flattering hopes of advancement to the 
Colonel when he should enter the House. Esmond’s friends 
were all successful, and the most successful and triumphant of 
all was his dear old commander. General Webb, who was now 
appointed Lieutenant-General of the Land Forces, and received 
with particular honour by the Ministry, by the Queen, and the 
people out of doors, who huzza’d the brave chief when they 
used to see him in his chariot going to the House or to the 
Drawing-room, or hobbling on foot to his coach from St 
Stephen’s upon his glorious old crutch and stick, and cheered 
him as loud as they had ever done Marlborough. 

That great Duke was utterly disgraced; and honest old 
Webb dated all his Grace’s misfortunes from Wynendael, and 
vowed that Fate served the traitor right. Duchess Sarah had 
also gone to ruin ; she had been forced to give up her keys, 
and her places, and her pensions : — ‘‘ Ah, ah ! ” says Webb, 


377 


Henry Esmond 

“ she would have locked up three millions of French crowns 
with her keys had I but been knocked on the head, but I 
stopped that convoy at Wynendael.” Our enemy Cardonnel 
was turned out of the House of Commons (along with Mr 
Walpole) for malversation of public money. Cadogan lost his 
place of Lieutenant of the Tower. Marlborough’s daughters 
resigned their posts of ladies of the bedchamber ; and so 
complete was the Duke’s disgrace, that his son-in-law. Lord 
Bridgewater, was absolutely obliged to give up his lodgings 
at St James’s, and had his half-pension, as Master of the Horse, 
taken away. But I think the lowest depth of Marlborough’s 
fall was when he humbly sent to ask General Webb when he 
might wait upon him ; he who had commanded the stout old 
General, who had injured him and sneered at him, who had 
kept him dangling in his ante-chamber, who could not even 
after his great service condescend to write him a letter in his 
own hand ! The nation was as eager for peace as ever it had 
been hot for war. The Prince of Savoy came amongst us, had 
his audience of the Queen, and got his famous Sword of Honour, 
and strove with all his force to form a Whig party together, 
to bring over the young Prince of Hanover — to do anything 
which might prolong the war, and consummate the ruin of the 
old sovereign whom he hated so implacably. But the nation 
was tired of the struggle : so completely wearied of it that not 
even our defeat at Denain could rouse us into any anger, though 
such an action so lost two years before would have set all 
; England in a fury. ’Twas easy to see that the great Marl- 
i borough was not with the army. Eugene was obliged to fall 
I back in a rage, and forego the dazzling revenge of his life. 

I ’Twas in vain the Duke’s side asked, ‘‘Would we suffer our 
I arms to be insulted ? Would we not send back the only 
1 champion who could repair our honour ? ” The nation had 
I had its bellyful of fighting ; nor could taunts or outcries goad 
I up our Britons any more. 

i For a statesman that was always prating of liberty, and had 
the grandest philosophic maxims in his mouth, it must be 
owned that Mr St John sometimes rather acted like a Turkish 
than a Greek philosopher, and especially fell foul of one 
unfortunate set of men, the men of letters, with a tyranny a 


378 The History of 

little extraordinary in a man who professed to respect their 
calling so much. The literary controversy at this time was 
very bitter, the Government side was the winning one, the 
popular one, and I think might have been the merciful one. 
’Twas natural that the Opposition should be peevish and cry 
out : some men did so from their hearts, admiring the Duke 
of Marlborough’s prodigious talents, and deploring the dis- 
grace of the greatest general the world ever knew : ’twas the 
stomach that caused the other patriots to grumble, and such 
men cried out because they were poor, and paid to do so. 
Against these my Lord Bolingbroke never showed the slightest 
mercy, whipping a dozen into prison or into the pillory with- 
out the least commiseration. 

From having been a man of arms Mr Esmond had now come 
to be a man of letters, but on a safer side than that in which 
the above-cited poor fellows ventured their liberties and ears. 
There was no danger on ours, which was the winning side ; 
besides, Mr Esmond pleased himself by thinking that he writ 
like a gentleman if he did not always succeed as a wit. 

Of the famous wits of that age, who have rendered Queen 
Anne’s reign illustrious, and whose works will be in all English- 
men’s hands in ages yet to come, Mr Esmond saw many, but at 
public places chiefly ; never having a great intimacy with any of 
them, except with honest Dick Steele, and Mr Addison, who 
parted company with Esmond, however, when that gentleman 
became a declared Tory, and lived on close terms with the 
leading persons of that party. Addison kept himself to a few 
friends, and very rarely opened himself except in their company. 
A man more upright and conscientious than he it was not 
possible to find in public life, and one whose conversation was 
so various, easy, and delightful. Writing now in my mature 
years, I own that I think Addison’s politics were the right, and 
were my time to come over again, I would be a Whig in 
England and not a Tory ; but with people that take a side in 
politics, ’tis men rather than principles that commonly bind 
them. A kindness or a slight puts a man under one flag or 
the other, and he marches with it to the end of the campaign. 
Esmond’s master in war was injured by Marlborough, and 
hated him ; and the lieutenant fought the quarrels of his 


379 


Henry Esmond 

leader. Webb coming to London was used as a weapon by 
Marlborough’s enemies (and true steel he was, that honest 
chief) ; nor was his aide-de-camp, Mr Esmond, an unfaithful 
or unworthy partisan. ’Tis strange here, and on a foreign soil, 
and in a land that is independent in all but the name (for that 
the North American colonies shall remain dependants on yonder 
little island for twenty years more, I can never think), to 
remember how the nation at home seemed to give itself up to 
the domination of one or other aristocratic party, and took a 
Hanoverian king, or a French one, according as either prevailed. 
And while the Tories, the October Club gentlemen, the High 
Church parsons that held by the Church of England, were for 
having a Papist king, for whom many of their Scottish and 
English leaders, firm Churchmen all, laid down their lives 
with admirable loyalty and devotion ; they were governed by 
men who had notoriously no religion at all, but used it as they 
would use any opinion for the purpose of forwarding their own 
ambition. The Whigs, on the other hand, who professed 
attachment to religion and liberty too, were compelled to send 
to Holland or Hanover for a monarch around whom they could 
rally. A strange series of compromises is that English History : 
compromise of principle, compromise of party, compromise of 
worship ! The lovers of English freedom and independence 
submitted their religious consciences to an Act of Parliament ; 
could not consolidate their liberty with sending to Zell or the 
Hague for a king to live under ; and could not find amongst 
the proudest people in the world a man speaking their own 
language, and understanding their laws, to govern them. The 
Tory and High Church patriots were ready to die in defence 
of a Papist family that had sold us to France ; the great Whig 
nobles, the sturdy republican recusants who had cut off Charles 
Stuart’s head for treason, were fain to accept a king whose title 
came to him through a royal grandmother, whose own royal 
grandmother’s head had fallen under Queen Bess’s hatchet. 
And our proud English nobles sent to a petty German town 
for a monarch to come and reign in London ; and our prelates 
kissed the ugly hands of his Dutch mistresses, and thought it 
no dishonour. In England you can but belong to one party 
or t’other, and you take the house you live in with all its 


380 The History of 

encumbrances, its retainers, its antique discomforts, and ruins 
even j you patch up, but you never build up anew. Will we 
of the New World submit much longer, even nominally, to 
this ancient British superstition ? There are signs of the times 
which make me think that ere long we shall care as little about 
King George here, and peers temporal and peers spiritual, as 
we do for King Canute or the Druids. 

This chapter began about the wits, my grandson may 
say, and hath wandered very far from their company. The 
pleasantest of the wits I knew were the Doctors Garth and 
Arbuthnot, and Mr Gay, the author of ‘‘ Trivia,” the most 
charming kind soul that ever laughed at a joke or cracked a 
bottle. Mr Prior I saw, and he was the earthen pot swimming 
with the pots of brass down the stream, and always and justly 
frightened lest he should break in the voyage. I met him both 
at London and Paris, where he was performing piteous co?igees 
to the Duke of Shrewsbury, not having courage to support the 
dignity which his undeniable genius and talent had won him, 
and writing coaxing letters to Secretary St John, and thinking 
about his plate and his place, and what on earth should become 
of him should his party go out. The famous Mr Congreve I 
saw a dozen of times at Button’s, a splendid wreck of a man, 
magnificently attired, and though gouty, and almost blind, 
bearing a brave face against fortune. 

The great Mr Pope of whose prodigious genius I have no 
words to express my admiration was quite a puny lad at this 
time, appearing seldom in public places. There were hundreds 
of men, wits, and pretty fellows frequenting the theatres and 
coffee-houses of that day — whom ‘‘ nunc perscribere longum 
est.” Indeed I think the most brilliant of that sort I ever saw 
was not till fifteen years after, when I paid my last visit in 
England, and met young Harry Fielding, son of the Fielding 
that served in Spain and afterwards in Flanders with us, and 
who for fun and humour seemed to top them all. As for the 
famous Doctor Swift, I can say of him, “ Vidi tantum.” He 
was in London all these years up to the death of the Queen : 
and in a hundred public places where I saw him but no more ; 
he never missed Court of a Sunday, where once or twice he 
was pointed out to your grandfather. He would have sought 


Henry Esmond 381 

me out eagerly enough had I been a great man with a title 
to my name, or a star on my coat. At Court the Doctor had 
no eyes but for the very greatest. Lord Treasurer and St 
John used to call him Jonathan, and they paid him with this 
cheap coin for the service they took of him. He writ their 
lampoons, fought their enemies, flogged and bullied in their 
service, and it must be owned with a consummate skill and 
fierceness. ’Tis said he hath lost his intellect now, and for- 
gotten his wrongs and his rage against mankind. I have 
always thought of him and of Marlborough as the two 
greatest men of that age. I have read his books (who doth 
not know them ?) here in our calm woods, and imagine a giant 
to myself as I think of him, a lonely fallen Prometheus, groan- 
ing as the vulture tears him. Prometheus I saw, but when 
first I ever had any words with him, the giant stepped out of 
a sedan chair in the Poultry, whither he had come with a tipsy 
Irish servant parading before him, who announced him, bawl- 
ing out his Reverence’s name, whilst his master below was as 
yet haggling with the chairman. 1 disliked this Mr Swift, 
and heard many a storm about him, of his conduct to men, 
and his words to women. He could flatter the great as much 
as he could bully the weak ; and Mr Esmond, being younger 
and hotter in that day than now, was determined, should he 
ever meet this dragon, not to run away from his teeth and 
his fire. 

Men have all sorts of motives which carry them onwards in 
life, and are driven into acts of desperation, or it may be of 
distinction, from a hundred different causes. There was one 
comrade of Esmond’s, an honest little Irish lieutenant of 
Handyside’s, who owed so much money to a camp sutler, that 
he began to make love to the man’s daughter, intending to 
pay his debt that way ; and at the battle of Malplaquet, flying 
away from the debt and lady too, he rushed so desperately on 
the French lines, that he got his company : and came a captain 
out of the action, and had to marry the sutler’s daughter after 
all, who brought him his cancelled debt to her father as poor 
Roger’s fortune. To run out of the reach of bill and marriage, 
he ran on the enemy’s pikes ; and as these did not kill him he 
was thrown back upon t’other horn of his dilemma. Our 


382 The History of 

great Duke at the same battle was fighting, not the French, 
but the Tories in England ; and risking his life and the army’s, 
not for his country but for his pay and places ; and for fear 
of his wife at home, that only being in life whom he dreaded. 
I have asked about men in my own company (new drafts of 
poor country boys were perpetually coming over to us during 
the wars, and brought from the ploughshare to the sword), 
and found that a half of them under the flags were driven 
thither on account of a woman : one fellow was jilted by his 
mistress and took the shilling in despair ; another jilted the 
girl, and fled from her and the parish to the tents where the 
law could not disturb him. Why go on particularising ? 
What can the sons of Adam and Eve expect, but to continue 
in that course of love and trouble their father and mother set 
out on ? Oh, my grandson ! I am drawing nigh to the end 
of that period of my history, when I was acquainted with the 
great world of England and Europe ; my years are past the 
Hebrew Poet’s limit, and I say unto thee, all my troubles and 
joys too, for that matter, have come from a woman : as thine 
will when thy destined course begins. ’Twas a woman that 
made a soldier of me, that set me intriguing afterwards ; I 
believe I would have spun smocks for her had she so bidden 
me ; what strength I had in my head I would have given 
her ; hath not every man in his degree had his Omphale and 
Delilah ? Mine befooled me on the banks of the Thames, 
and in dear Old England ; thou mayest find thine own by 
Rappahannoc. 

To please that woman then I tried to distinguish myself as 
a soldier, and afterwards as a wit and a politician ; as to 
please another I would have put on a black cassock and a 
pair of bands, and had done so but that a superior fate 
intervened to defeat that project. And I say, I think the 
world is like Captain Esmond’s company I spoke of anon ; 
and could you see every man’s career in life, you would find 
a woman clogging him ; or clinging round his march and 
stopping him ; or cheering him and goading him ; or beckon- 
ing him out of her chariot, so that he goes up to her, and 
leaves the race to be run without him ; or bringing him the 
apple, and saying “Eat;” or fetching him the daggers and 


Henry Esmond 383 

whispering “ Kill ! yonder lies Duncan, and a crown, and an 
opportunity.” 

Your grandfather fought with more effect as a politician 
than as a wit ; and having private animosities and grievances 
of his own and his General’s against the great Duke in 
command of the army, and more information on military 
matters than most writers, who had never seen beyond the 
fire of a tobacco-pipe at “ Wills’s,” he was enabled to do good 
service for that cause which he embarked in, and for Mr St 
John and his party. But he disdained the abuse in which 
some of the Tory writers indulged ; for instance. Doctor 
Swift, who actually chose to doubt the Duke of Marlborough’s 
courage, and was pleased to hint that his Grace’s military 
capacity was doubtful : nor were Esmond’s performances 
worse for the effect they were intended to produce (though 
no doubt they could not injure the Duke of Marlborough 
nearly so much in the public eyes as the malignant attacks 
of Swift did, which were carefully directed so as to blacken 
and degrade him), because they were writ openly and fairly 
by Mr Esmond, who made no disguise of them, who was 
now out of the army, and who never attacked the prodigious 
courage and talents, only the selfishness and rapacity, of the 
chief. 

The Colonel then, having writ a paper for one of the Tory 
journals, called the Post-Boy (a letter upon Bouchain, that the 
town talked about for two whole days, when the appearance 
of an Italian singer supplied a fresh subject for conversation), 
and having business at the Exchange, where Mistress Beatrix 
wanted a pair of gloves or a fan very likely, Esmond went to 
correct his paper, and was sitting at the printer’s, when the 
famous Doctor Swift came in, his Irish fellow with him that 
used to walk before his chair, and bawled out his master’s 
name with great dignity. 

Mr Esmond was waiting for the printer too, whose wife 
had gone to the tavern to fetch him, and was meantime en- 
gaged in drawing a picture of a soldier on horseback for a 
dirty little pretty boy of the printer’s wife, whom she had left 
behind her. 

“I presume you are the editor of the Post-Boy ^ sir?” says 


The History of 


384 

the Doctor in a grating voice that had an Irish twang ; and he 
looked at the Colonel from under his two bushy eyebrows 
with a pair of very clear blue eyes. His complexion was 
muddy, his figure rather fat, his chin double. He wore 
a shabby cassock, and a shabby hat over his black wig, 
and he pulled out a great gold watch, at which he looks very 
fierce. 

am but a contributor. Doctor Swift,” says Esmond, 
with the little boy still on his knee. He was sitting with 
his back in the window, so that the Doctor could not see him. 

‘‘ Who told you I was Dr Swift ? ” says the Doctor, eyeing 
the other very haughtily. 

“ Your Reverence’s valet bawled out your name,” says 
the Colonel. “ I should judge you brought him from 
Ireland .? ” 

“ And pray, sir, what right have you to judge whether my 
servant came from Ireland or no ? I want to speak with your 
employer, Mr Leach. I’ll thank ye go fetch him.” 

“ Where’s your papa. Tommy ? ” asks the Colonel of the 
child, a smutty little wretch in a frock. 

Instead of answering, the child begins to cry j the Doctor’s 
appearance had no doubt frightened the poor little imp. 

“ Send that squalling little brat about his business, and do 
what I bid ye, sir,” says the Doctor. 

‘‘ I must finish the picture first for Tommy,” says the 
Colonel, laughing. ‘‘ Here, Tommy, will you have your 
Pandour with whiskers or without ” 

‘‘ Whisters,” says Tommy, quite intent on the picture. 

“Who the devil are ye, sir?” cries the Doctor; “are 
ye a printer’s man, or are ye not ? ” he pronounced it like 
nought. 

“ Your Reverence needn’t raise the devil to ask who I am,” 
says Colonel Esmond. “Did you ever hear of Doctor Faustus, 
little Tommy? or Friar Bacon who invented gunpowder, and 
set the Thames on fire ? ” 

Mr Swift turned quite red, almost purple. “ I did not 
intend any offence, sir,” says he. 

“ I dare say, sir, you offended without meaning,” says the 
other drily. 


IT ' IK n. n 1 / 



DOCTOR BOBADIL 


BOOK lll • CHAP:V 

















Henry Esmond 385 

“ Who are ye, sir ? Do you know who I am, sir ? You 
are one of the pack of Grub Street scribblers that my friend 
Mr Secretary hath laid by the heels. How dare ye, sir, speak 
to me in this tone ? ’’ cries the Doctor, in a great fume. 

“I beg your honour’s humble pardon if I have offended 
your honour,” says Esmond, in a tone of great humility. 
“ Rather than be sent to the Comptor, or be put in the 
pillory, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do. But Mrs Leach, the 
printer’s lady, told me to mind Tommy whilst she went for 
her husband to the tavern, and I daren’t leave the child lest 
he should fall into the fire ; but if your Reverence will hold 
him ” 

“ I take the little beast ! ” says the Doctor, starting back. 
‘‘ I am engaged to your betters, fellow. Tell Mr Leach that 
when he makes an appointment with Doctor Swift he had best 
keep it, do you hear And keep a respectful tongue in your 
head, sir, when you address a person like me.” 

“ I’m but a poor broken-down soldier,” says the Colonel, 
‘‘ and I’ve seen better days, though I am forced now to turn 
my hand to writing. We can’t help our fate, sir.” 

“ You’re the person that Mr Leach hath spoken to me of, 
I presume. Have the goodness to speak civilly when you 
are spoken to — and tell Leach to call at my lodgings in 
Bury Street, and bring the papers with him to-night at ten 
o’clock. And the next time you see me, you’ll know me, 
and be civil, Mr Kemp.” 

Poor Kemp, who had been a lieutenant at the beginning of 
the war, and fallen into misfortune, was the writer of the Post- 
Boy, and now took honest Mr Leach’s pay in place of Her 
Majesty’s. Esmond had seen this gentleman, and a very 
ingenious, hard-working, honest fellow he was, toiling to 
give bread to a great family, and watching up many a long 
winter night to keep the wolf from his door. And Mr St 
John, who had liberty always on his tongue, had just sent a 
dozen of the Opposition writers into prison, and one actually 
into the pillory, for what he called libels, but libels not half 
so violent as those writ on our side. With regard to this 
very piece of tyranny, Esmond had remonstrated strongly with 
the Secretary, who laughed, and said the rascals were served 

2 B 


386 The History of | 

I 

quite right ; and told Esmond a joke of Swift’s regarding the 
matter. Nay, more, this Irishman, when St John was about j 
to pardon a poor wretch condemned to death for rape, abso- ' 
lutely prevented the Secretary from exercising this act of 
good-nature, and boasted that he had had the man hanged ; 
and great as the Doctor’s genius might be, and splendid his 
ability, Esmond for one would affect no love for him, and 
never desired to make his acquaintance. The Doctor was at 
Court every Sunday assiduously enough, a place the Colonel 
frequented but rarely, though he had a great inducement to go 
there in the person of a fair maid of honour of Her Majesty’s ; 
and the airs and patronage Mr Swift gave himself, forgetting 
gentlemen of his country whom he knew perfectly, his loua 
talk, at once insolent and servile, nay, perhaps his very intimacy 
with Lord Treasurer and the Secretary, who indulged all his 
freaks and called him Jonathan, you may be sure, were 
remarked by many a person of whom the proud priest 
himself took no note, during that time of his vanity and 
triumph. 

’Twas but three days after the 15th of November 1 71 2 
(Esmond minds him well of the date), that he went by invita- 
tion to dine with his General, the foot of whose table he used 
to take on these festive occasions, as he had done at many a 
board, hard and plentiful, during the campaign. This was a 
great feast, and of the latter sort ; the honest old gentleman 
loved to treat his friends splendidly : his Grace of Ormond, 
before he joined his army as Generalissimo ; my Lord Viscount 
Bolingbroke, one of Her Majesty’s Secretaries of State ; my 
Lord Orkney, that had served with us abroad, being of the 
party. His Grace of Hamilton, Master of the Ordnance, and 
in whose honour the feast had been given, upon his approach- 
ing departure as Ambassador to Paris, had sent an excuse to 
General Webb at two o’clock, but an hour before the dinner : 
nothing but the most immediate business, his Grace said, should 
have prevented him having the pleasure of drinking a parting 
glass to the health of General Webb. His absence dis- 
appointed Esmond’s old chief, who suffered much from his 
wounds besides ; and though the company was grand, it was 
rather gloomy. St John came last, and brought a friend with 


Henry Esmond 387 

him : “ I’m sure,” says my General, bowing very politely, 
“ my table hath always a place for Doctor Swift.” 

Mr Esmond went up to the Doctor with a bow and a smile: 
— ‘‘ I gave Doctor Swift’s message,” says he, “ to the printer: 

I hope he brought your pamphlet to your lodgings in time.” 
Indeed poor Leach had come to his house very soon after the 
Doctor left it, being brought away rather tipsy from the 
tavern by his thrifty wife ; and he talked of Cousin Swift 
, in a maudlin way, though of course Mr Esmond did not 
I allude to this relationship. The Doctor scowled, blushed, 

I and was much confused, and said scarce a word during the 
whole of dinner. A very little stone will sometimes knock 
down these Goliaths of wit ; and this one was often discom- 
fited when met by a man of any spirit ; he took his place 
sulkily, put water in his wine that the others drank plenti- 
fully, and scarce said a word. 

The talk was about the affairs of the day, or rather about 
persons than affairs : my Lady Marlborough’s fury, her 
daughters in old clothes and mob-caps looking out from 
!: their windows and seeing the company pass to the Drawing- 
room*, the gentleman-usher’s horror when the Prince of 
' Savoy was introduced to Her Majesty in a tie-wig, no man 
< out of a full-bottomed periwig ever having kissed the Royal 
t hand before ; about the Mohawks and the damage they were 
l' doing, rushing through the town, killing and murdering. 
[ Some one said the ill-omened face of Mohun had been seen 
ii at the theatre the night before, and Macartney and Meredith 
i- with him. Meant to be a feast, the meeting, in spite of drink 
I and talk, was as dismal as a funeral. Every topic started sub- 
l.'l sided into gloom. His Grace of Ormond went away because 
i the conversation got upon Denain, where he had been defeated 
I in the last campaign. Esmond’s General was affected at the 
i allusion to this action too, for his comrade of Wynendael, the 
Count of Nassau Woudenbourg, had been slain there. Mr 
( Swift, when Esmond pledged him, said he drank no wine, 

] and took his hat from the peg and went away, beckoning 
i my Lord Bolingbroke to follow him ; but the other bade 
I him take his chariot and save his coach-hire — he had to 
[i speak with Colonel Esmond ; and when the rest of the 


388 The History of 

company withdrew to cards, these two remained behind in 
the dark. 

Bolingbroke always spoke freely when he had drunk freely. 
His enemies could get any secret out of him in that condition ; 
women were even employed to ply him and take his words 
down. I have heard that my Lord Stair, three years after, 
when the Secretary fled to France and became the Pretender’s 
Minister, got all the information he wanted by putting female 
spies over St John in his cups. He spoke freely now : — 
“ Jonathan knows nothing of this for certain, though he 
suspects it, and by George, Webb will take an Archbishopric, 
and Jonathan a — no, — damme — Jonathan will take an Arch- 
bishopric from James, I warrant me, gladly enough. Your 
Duke hath the string of the whole matter in his hand,” the 
Secretary went on. “We have that which will force Marl- 
borough to keep his distance, and he goes out of London in a 
fortnight. Prior hath his business ; he left me this morning, 
and mark me, Harry, should fate carry off our august, our 
beloved, our most gouty and plethoric Queen, and Defender 
of the Faith, la bonne cause triomphera. A la sante de la 
bonne cause ! Everything good comes from France. Wine 
comes from France ; give us another bumper to the bonne 
cause.” We drank it together. 

“ Will the bonne cause turn Protestant ? ” asked Mr 
Esmond. 

“ No, hang it,” says the other, “ he’ll defend our Faith as 
in duty bound, but he’ll stick by his own. The Hind and the 
Panther shall run in the same car, by Jove ! Righteousness 
and peace shall kiss each other : and we’ll have Father 
Massillon to walk down the aisle of St Paul’s cheek by 
jowl with Dr Sacheverel. Give us more wine : here’s a 
health to the bonne cause, kneeling — damme, let’s drink it 
kneeling ! ” He was quite flushed and wild with wine as he 
was talking. 

“ And suppose,” says Esmond, who always had this gloomy 
apprehension, “ the bonne cause should give us up to the 
French, as his father and uncle did before him?” 

“ Give us up to the French ! ” starts up Bolingbroke : “ is 
there any English gentleman that fears that ? You who have 


Henry Esmond 389 

seen Blenheim and Ramillies, afraid of the French ! Your 
ancestors and mine, and brave old Webb’s yonder, have met 
them in a hundred fields, and our children will be ready to do 
the like. Who’s he that wishes for more men from England ? 
My cousin Westmoreland ? Give us up to the French, psha!” 

‘‘ His uncle did,” says Mr Esmond. 

‘‘And what happened to his grandfather?” broke out St 
John, filling out another bumper. “Here’s to the greatest 
monarch England ever saw ; here’s to the Englishman that 
made a kingdom of her. Our great King came from Hunting- 
don, not Hanover ; our fathers didn’t look for a Dutchman to 
rule us. Let him come and we’ll keep him, and we’ll show 
him Whitehall. If he’s a traitor, let us have him here to deal 
with him j and then there are spirits here as great as any that 
have gone before. There are men here that can look at danger 
in the face and not be frightened at it. Traitor ! treason ! 
what names are these to scare you and me ? Are all Oliver’s 
men dead, or his glorious name forgotten in fifty years ? Are 
there no men equal to him, think you, as good — ay, as good ? 
God save the King ! and, if the monarchy fails us, God save 
the British Republic ! ” 

He filled another great bumper, and tossed it up and drained 
it wildly, just as the noise of rapid carriage wheels approaching 
was stopped at our door, and after a hurried knock and a 
moment’s interval, Mr Swift came into the hall, ran upstairs to 
the room we were dining in, and entered it with a perturbed 
face. St John, excited with drink, was making some wild 
quotation out of “Macbeth,” but Swift stopped him. 

“ Drink no more, my Lord, for God’s sake ! ” says he. “I 
come with the most dreadful news.” 

“ Is the Queen dead ? ” cries out Bolingbroke, seizing on a 
water-glass. 

“ No, Duke Hamilton is dead ; he was murdered an hour 
ago by Mohun and Macartney ; they had a quarrel this morn- 
ing ; they gave him not so much time as to write a letter. He 
went for a couple of his friends, and he is dead, and Mohun, 
too, the bloody villain, who was set on him. They fought in 
Hyde Park just before sunset ; the Duke killed Mohun, and 
Macartney came up and stabbed him, and the dog is fled. I 


390 


The History of 

have your chariot below ; send to every part of the country and 
apprehend that villain; come to the Duke’s house and see if 
any life be left in him.” 

“ Oh, Beatrix, Beatrix,” thought Esmond, “ and here ends 
my poor girl’s ambition ! ” 


Chapter VI 

Poor Beatrix ! 

There had been no need to urge upon Esmond the necessity 
of a separation between him and Beatrix : Fate had done that 
completely ; and I think from the very moment poor Beatrix 
had accepted the Duke’s offer, she began to assume the majestic 
air of a Duchess, nay. Queen Elect, and to carry herself as one 
sacred and removed from us common people. Her mother and 
kinsman both fell into her ways, the latter scornfully perhaps, 
and uttering his usual gibes at her vanity and his own. There 
was a certain charm about this girl of which neither Colonel 
Esmond nor his fond mistress could forego the fascination ; in 
spite of her faults and her pride and wilfulness, they were 
forced to love her ; and, indeed, might be set down as the 
two chief flatterers of the brilliant creature’s court. 

Who, in the course of his life, hath not been so bewitched, 
and worshipped some idol or another ? Years after this passion 
hath been dead and buried, along with a thousand other worldly 
cares and ambitions, he who felt it can recall it out of its grave, 
and admire, almost as fondly as he did in his youth, that lovely 
queenly creature. I invoke that beautiful spirit from the shades 
and love her still ; or rather I should say such a past is always 
present to a man ; such a passion once felt forms a part of his 
whole being, and cannot be separated from it ; it becomes a 
portion of the man of to-day, just as any great faith or convic- 
tion, the discovery of poetry, the awakening of religion, ever 
afterwards influence him ; just as the wound I had at Blenheim, 
and of which I wear the scar, hath become part of my frame 
and influenced my whole body, nay, spirit subsequently, though 
’twas got and healed forty years ago. Parting and forgetting ? 


Henry Esmond 391 

What faithful heart can do these ? Our great thoughts, our 
great affections, the Truths of our life, never leave us. Surely 
they cannot separate from our consciousness ; shall follow it 
whithersoever that shall go ; and are of their nature divine and 
immortal. 

With the horrible news of this catastrophe, which was con- 
firmed by the weeping domestics at the Duke’s own door, 
Esmond rode homewards as quick as his lazy coach would carry 
him, devising all the time how he should break the intelligence 
to the person most concerned in it ; and if a satire upon human 
vanity could be needed, that poor soul afforded it in the altered 
company and occupations in which Esmond found her. For 
days before, her chariot had been rolling the street from mercer 
to toyshop — from goldsmith to lace-man ; her taste was perfect, 
or at least the fond bridegroom had thought so, and had given 
her entire authority over all tradesmen, and for all the plate, 
furniture, and equipages, with which his Grace the Ambassador 
wished to adorn his splendid mission. She must have her 
picture by Kneller, a duchess not being complete without a 
portrait, and a noble one he made, and actually sketched in, on 
a cushion, a coronet which she was about to wear. She vowed 
she would wear it at King James the Third’s coronation, and 
never a princess in the land would have become ermine better. 
Esmond found the ante-chamber crowded with milliners and 
toyshop women, obsequious goldsmiths with jewels, salvers, 
and tankards ; and mercers’ men with hangings, and velvets, 
and brocades. My Lady Duchess elect was giving audience 
to one famous silversmith from Exeter Change, who brought 
with him a great chased salver, of which he was pointing out 
the beauties as Colonel Esmond entered. “ Come,” says she, 
“Cousin, and admire the taste of this pretty thing.” I think 
Mars and Venus were lying in the golden bower, that one 
gilt Cupid carried off the war-god’s casque — another his 
sword — another his great buckler, upon which my Lord Duke 
Hamilton’s arms with ours were to be engraved — and a fourth 
was kneeling down to the reclining goddess with the ducal 
coronet in her hands, God help us ! The next time Mr 
Esmond saw that piece of plate, the arms were changed : the 
ducal coronet had been replaced by a viscount’s : it formed 


392 


The History of 

part of the fortune of the thrifty goldsmith’s own daughter, when 
she married my Lord Viscount Squanderfield two years after. 

Isn’t this a beautiful piece ? ” says Beatrix, examining it, 
and she pointed out the arch graces of the Cupids, and the fine 
carving of the languid prostrate Mars. Esmond sickened as 
he thought of the warrior dead in his chamber, his servants 
and children weeping around him ; and of this smiling creature 
attiring herself, as it were, for that nuptial deathbed. ‘‘ ’Tis 
a pretty piece of vanity,” says he, looking gloomily at the 
beautiful creature : there were flambeaux in the room lighting 
up the brilliant mistress of it. She lifted up the great gold 
salver with her fair arms. 

‘‘ Vanity ! ” says she haughtily. ‘‘ What is vanity in you, 
sir, is propriety in me. You ask a Jewish price for it, Mr 
Graves j but have it I will, if only to spite Mr Esmond.” 

“ Oh, Beatrix, lay it down ! ” says Mr Esmond. Herodias ! 
you know not what you carry in the charger.”. 

She dropped it with a clang j the eager goldsmith running 
to seize his fallen ware. The lady’s face caught the fright 
from Esmond’s pale countenance, and her eyes shone out like 
beacons of alarm : — “ What is it, Henry ? ” says she, running to 
him, and seizing both his hands. ‘‘ What do you mean by 
your pale face and gloomy tones ? ” 

“ Come away, come away ! ” says Esmond, leading her : she 
clung frightened to him, and he supported her upon his heart, 
bidding the scared goldsmith leave them. The man went into 
the next apartment, staring with surprise, and hugging his 
precious charger. 

“ Oh, my Beatrix, my sister ! ” says Esmond, still holding in 
his arms the pallid and affrighted creature, ‘‘you have the 
greatest courage of any woman in the world ; prepare to show 
it now, for you have a dreadful trial to bear.” 

She sprang away from the friend who would have protected 
her ; — “ Hath he left me ” says she. “ We had words this 
morning : he was very gloomy, and I angered him : but he 
dared not, he dared not ! ” As she spoke a burning blush 
flushed over her whole face and bosom. Esmond saw it 
reflected in the glass by which she stood, with clenched hands, 
pressing her swelling heart. 


Henry Esmond 393 

“ He has left you,” says Esmond, wondering that rage rather 
than sorrow was in her looks. 

‘‘ And he is alive,” cries Beatrix, and you bring me this 
commission ! He has left me, and you haven’t dared to avenge 
me ! You, that pretend to be the champion of our house, have 
let me suffer this insult ! Where is Castlewood ? I will go to 
my brother.” 

“ The Duke is not alive, Beatrix,” said Esmond. 

She looked at her cousin wildly, and fell back to the wall as 
though shot in the breast : — “ And you come here, and — and 
— you killed him ? ” 

“ No ; thank Heaven ! ” her kinsman said. ‘‘ The blood of 
that noble heart doth not stain my sword ! In its last hour it 
was faithful to thee, Beatrix Esmond. Vain and cruel woman! 
kneel and thank the awful Heaven which awards life and death, 
and chastises pride, that the noble Hamilton died true to you ; 
at least that ’twas not your quarrel, or your pride, or your 
wicked vanity, that drove him to his fate. He died by the 
bloody sword which already had drunk your own father’s 
blood. O woman, O sister I to that sad field where two 
corpses are lying — for the murderer died too by the hand of 
the man he slew — can you bring no mourners but your revenge 
and your vanity ? God help and pardon thee, Beatrix, as He 
brings this awful punishment to your hard and rebellious 
heart.” 

Esmond had scarce done speaking when his mistress came in. 
The colloquy between him and Beatrix had lasted but a few 
minutes, during which time Esmond’s servant had carried the 
disastrous news through the household. The army of Vanity 
Fair, waiting without, gathered up all their fripperies and fled 
aghast. Tender Lady Castlewood had been in talk above with 
Dean Atterbury, the pious creature’s almoner and director ; and 
the Dean had entered with her as a physician whose place was 
at a sick-bed. Beatrix’s mother looked at Esmond and ran to- 
wards her daughter, with a pale face and open heart and hands, 
all kindness and pity. But Beatrix passed her by, nor would 

! '* she have any of the medicaments of the spiritual physician. ‘‘ I 
am best in my own room and by myself,” she said. Her eyes 
were quite dry ; nor did Esmond ever see them otherwise, save 


394 


The History of 

once, in respect to that grief. She gave him a cold hand as she 
went out : “ Thank you, brother,” she said, in a low voice, and 
with a simplicity more touching than tears ; “all you have said 
is true and kind, and I will go away and ask pardon.” The 
three others remained behind, and talked over the dreadful story. 
It affected Doctor Atterbury more even than us, as it seemed. 
The death of Mohun, her husband’s murderer, was more awful 
to my mistress than even the Duke’s unhappy end. Esmond 
gave at length what particulars he knew of their quarrel, and 
the cause of it. The two noblemen had long been at war with 
respect to the Lord Gerard’s property, whose two daughters 
my Lord Duke and Mohun had married. They had met by 
appointment that day at the lawyer’s in Lincoln’s Inn Fields ; 
had words which, though they appeared very trifling to those 
who heard them, were not so to men exasperated by long and 
previous enmity. Mohun asked my Lord Duke where he could 
see his Grace’s friends, and within an hour had sent two of his 
own to arrange this deadly duel. It was pursued with such 
fierceness, and sprang from so trifling a cause, that all men 
agreed at the time that there was a party, of which these three 
notorious brawlers were but agents, who desired to take Duke 
Hamilton’s life away. They fought three on a side, as in that 
tragic meeting twelve years back, which hath been recounted 
already, and in which Mohun performed his second murder. 
They rushed in, and closed upon each other at once without 
any feints or crossing of swords even, and stabbed one at the 
other desperately, each receiving many wounds ; and Mohun 
having his death-wound, and my Lord Duke lying by him. 
Macartney came up and stabbed his Grace as he lay on the 
ground, and gave him the blow of which he died. Colonel 
Macartney denied this, of which the horror and indignation of 
the whole kingdom would nevertheless have him guilty, and fled 
the country, whither he never returned. 

What was the real cause of the Duke Hamilton’s death ? — a 
paltry quarrel that might easily have been made up, and with a 
ruffian so low, base, profligate, and degraded with former crimes 
and repeated murders, that a man of such renown and princely 
rank as my Lord Duke might have disdained to sully his sword 
with the blood of such a villain. But his spirit was so high that 


395 


Henry Esmond 

those who wished his death knew that his courage was like his 
charity, and never turned any man away ; and he died by the 
hands of Mohun, and the other two cut-throats that were set 
on him. The Queen’s Ambassador to Paris died, the loyal and 
devoted servant of the House of Stewart, and a Royal Prince 
of Scotland himself, and carrying the confidence, the repentance 
of Queen Anne along with his own open devotion, and the 
goodwill of millions in the country more, to the Queen’s exiled 
brother and sovereign. 

That party to which Lord Mohun belonged had the benefit 
of his service, and now were well rid of such a ruffian. He, 
and Meredith, and Macartney, were the Duke of Marlborough’s 
men ; and the two colonels had been broke but the year before 
for drinking perdition to the Tories. His Grace was a Whig 
now and a Hanoverian, and as eager for war as Prince Eugene 
himself. I say not that he was privy to Duke Hamilton’s 
I death : I say that his party profited by it ; and that three 
j desperate and bloody instruments were found to effect that 
I murder. 

As Esmond and the Dean walked away from Kensington 
discoursing of this tragedy, and how fatal it was to the cause 
which they both had at heart, the street-criers were already 
out with their broadsides, shouting through the town the full, 
true, and horrible account of the death of Lord Mohun and 
Duke Hamilton in a duel. A fellow had got to Kensington 
and was crying it in the square there at very early morning, 
when Mr Esmond happened to pass by. He drove the man 
from under Beatrix’s very window, whereof the casement had 
been set open. The sun was shining though ’twas November : 
he had seen the market-carts rolling into London, the guard 
relieved at the palace, the labourers trudging to their work in 
the gardens between Kensington and the City — the wandering 
merchants and hawkers filling the air with their cries. The 
world was going to its business again, although dukes lay dead 
and ladies mourned for them ; and kings, very likely, lost their 
chances. So night and day pass away, and to-morrow comes, 
and our place knows us not. Esmond thought of the courier, 
now galloping on the North road to inform him, who was Earl 
of Arran yesterday, that he was Duke of Hamilton to-day, and 


396 The History of 

of a thousand great schemes, hopes, ambitions, that were alive 
in the gallant heart beating a few hours since, and now in a 
little dust quiescent. 


Chapter VII 

I visit Castlewood once more 

Thus, for a third time, Beatrix’s ambitious hopes were circum- 
vented, and she might well believe that a special malignant 
fate watched and pursued her, tearing her prize out of her 
hand just as she seemed to grasp it, and leaving her with only 
rage and grief for her portion. Whatever her feelings might 
have been of anger or of sorrow (and I fear me that the former 
emotion was that which most tore her heart), she would take 
no confidant, as people of softer natures would have done 
under such a calamity ; her mother and her kinsman knew 
that she would disdain their pity, and that to offer it would 
be but to infuriate the cruel wound which fortune had in- 
flicted. We knew that her pride was awfully humbled and 
punished by this sudden and terrible blow ; she wanted no 
teaching of ours to point out the sad moral of her story. Her 
fond mother could give but her prayers ; and her kinsman 
his faithful friendship and patience to the unhappy, stricken 
creature ; and it was only by hints, and a word or two uttered 
months afterwards, that Beatrix showed she understood their 
silent commiseration, and on her part was secretly thankful 
for their forbearance. The people about the Court said there 
was that in her manner which frightened away scoffing and 
condolence : she was above their triumph and their pity, and 
acted her part in that dreadful tragedy greatly and courage- 
ously *5 so that those who liked her least were yet forced to 
admire her. We, who watched her after her disaster, could 
not but respect the indomitable courage and majestic calm 
with which she bore it. “I would rather see her tears than 
her pride,” her mother said, who was accustomed to bear her 
sorrows in a very different way, and to receive them as the 
stroke of God, with an awful submission and meekness. But 


Henry Esmond 397 

Beatrix’s nature was different to that tender parent’s ; she 
seemed to accept her grief, and to defy it ; nor would she 
allow it (I believe not even in private and in her own chamber) 
to extort from her the confession of even a tear of humiliation 
or a cry of pain. Friends and children of our race, who come 
after me, in which way will you bear your trials ? I know 
one that prays God will give you love rather than pride, and 
that the Eye all-seeing shall find you in the humble place. 
Not that we should judge proud spirits otherwise than chari- 
tably. ’Tis nature hath fashioned some for ambition and 
dominion, as it hath formed others for obedience and gentle 
submission. The leopard follows his nature as the lamb does, 
and acts after leopard law ; she can neither help her beauty, 
nor her courage, nor her cruelty ; nor a single spot on her 
shining coat ; nor the conquering spirit which impels her ; 
nor the shot which brings her down. 

During that well-founded panic the Whigs had, lest the 
Queen should forsake their Hanoverian Prince, bound by 
oaths and treaties as she was to him, and recall her brother, 
who was allied to her by yet stronger ties of nature and duty, 
— the Prince of Savoy, and the boldest of that party of the 
Whigs, were for bringing the young Duke of Cambridge 
over, in spite of the Queen, and the outcry of her Tory 
servants, arguing that the Electoral Prince, a Peer and Prince 
of the Blood-Royal of this Realm too, and in the line of suc- 
cession to the crown, had a right to sit in the parliament 
whereof he was a member, and to dwell in the country which 
he one day was to govern. Nothing but the strongest ill- 
will expressed by the Queen, and the people about her, and 
menaces of the Royal resentment, should this scheme be per- 
sisted in, prevented it from being carried into effect. 

The boldest on our side were, in like manner, for having 
our Prince into the country. The undoubted inheritor of the 
right divine; the feelings of more than half the nation, of 
almost all the clergy, of the gentry of England and Scot- 
land with him ; entirely innocent of the crime for which his 
father suffered — brave, young, handsome, unfortunate — who 
in England would dare to molest the Prince should he come 
among us, and fling himself upon British generosity, hospitality. 


398 The History of 

and honour ? An invader with an army of Frenchmen behind 
him, Englishmen of spirit would resist to the death, and drive 
back to the shores whence he came ; but a Prince, alone, 
armed with his right only, and relying on the loyalty of his 
people, was sure, many of his friends argued, of welcome, at 
least of safety among us. The hand of his sister the Queen, 
of the people his subjects, never could be raised to do him a 
wrong. But the Queen was timid by nature, and the suc- 
cessive Ministers she had, had private causes for their irresolu- 
tion. The bolder and honester men, who had at heart the 
illustrious young exile’s cause, had no scheme of interest of 
their own to prevent them from seeing the right done, and, 
provided only he came as an Englishman, were ready to venture 
their all to welcome and defend him. 

St Johnjand Harley both had kind words in plenty for the 
Prince’s adherents, and gave him endless promises of future 
support ; but hints and promises were all they could be got to 
give ; and some of his friends were for measures much bolder, 
more efficacious, and more open. With a party of these, some 
of whom are yet alive, and some whose names Mr Esmond has 
no right to mention, he found himself engaged the year after 
that miserable death of Duke Hamilton, which deprived the 
Prince of his most courageous ally in this country. Dean 
Atterbury was one of the friends whom Esmond may mention, 
as the brave bishop is now beyond exile and persecution, and 
to him, and one or two more, the Colonel opened himself of a 
scheme of his own, that, backed by a little resolution on the 
Prince’s part, could not fail of bringing about the accomplish- 
ment of their dearest wishes. 

My young Lord Viscount Castle wood had not come to 
England to keep his majority, and had now been absent 
from the country for several years. The year when his 
sister was to be married and Duke Hamilton died, my Lord 
was kept at Bruxelles by his wife’s lying-in. The gentle 
Clotilda could not bear her husband out of her sight ; per- 
haps she mistrusted the young scapegrace should he ever 
get loose from her leading-strings ; and she kept him by 
her side to nurse the baby and administer posset to the 
gossips. Many a laugh poor Beatrix had had about Frank’s 


399 


Henry Esmond 

uxoriousness ; his mother would have gone to Clotilda when 
her time was coming, but that the mother-in-law was already 
in possession, and the negotiations for poor Beatrix’s marriage 
were begun. A few months after the horrid catastrophe in 
Hyde Park, my mistress and her daughter retired to Castle- 
wood, where my Lord, it was expected, would soon join them. 
But, to say truth, their quiet household was little to his taste : 
he could be got to come to Walcote but once after his first 
campaign ; and then the young rogue spent more than half his 
time in London, not appearing at Court or in public under his 
own name and title, but frequenting plays, bagnios, and the 
very worst company, under the name of Captain Esmond 
(whereby his innocent kinsman got more than once into 
trouble) ; and so under various pretexts, and in pursuit of 
all sorts of pleasures, until he plunged into the lawful one of 
marriage, Frank Castle wood had remained away from this 
country and was unknown, save amongst the gentlemen of the 
army, with whom he had served abroad. The fond heart of 
his mother was pained by this long absence. ’Twas all that 
Henry Esmond could do to soothe her natural mortification, 
and find excuses for his kinsman’s levity. 

In the autumn of the year 1713, Lord Castlewood thought 
of returning home. His first child had been a daughter ; 
Clotilda was in the way of gratifying his Lordship with a 
second, and the pious youth thought that, by bringing his wife 
to his ancestral home, by prayers to St Philip of Castlewood, 
and what not. Heaven might be induced to bless him with a 
son this time, for whose coming the expectant mamma was 
very anxious. 

The long-debated peace had been proclaimed this year at the 
end of March ; and France was open to us. Just as Frank’s 
poor mother had made all things ready for Lord Castlewood’s 
reception, and was eagerly expecting her son, it was by Colonel 
Esmond’s means that the kind lady was disappointed of her 
longing, and obliged to defer once more the darling hope of 
her heart. 

Esmond took horses to Castlewood. He had not seen its 
ancient grey towers and well-remembered woods for nearly 
fourteen years, and since he rode thence with my Lord, to 


400 


The History of 

whom his mistress with her young children by her side waved 
an adieu. What ages seemed to have passed since then, what 
years of action and passion, of care, love, hope, disaster ! 
The children were grown up now, and had stories of their 
own. As for Esmond, he felt to be a hundred years old ; 
his dear mistress only seemed unchanged ; she looked and 
welcomed him quite as of old. There was the fountain in the 
court babbling its familiar music, the old hall and its furniture, 
the carved chair my late lord used, the very flagon he drank 
from. Esmond’s mistress knew he would like to sleep in the 
little room he used to occupy ; ’twas made ready for him, and 
wallflowers and sweet herbs set in the adjoining chamber, the 
chaplain’s room. 

In tears of not unmanly emotion, with prayers of submission 
to the awful Dispenser of death and life, of good and evil 
fortune, Mr Esmond passed a part of that first night at Castle- 
wood, lying awake for many hours as the clock kept tolling 
(in tones so well remembered), looking back, as all men will, 
that revisit their home of childhood, over the great gulf of 
time, and surveying himself on the distant bank yonder, a sad 
little melancholy boy with his lord still alive — his dear mistress, 
a girl yet, her children sporting around her. Years ago, a boy 
on that very bed, when she had blessed him and called him 
her knight, he had made a vow to be faithful and never desert 
her dear service. Had he kept that fond boyish promise ? 
Yes, before Heaven ; yes, praise be to God ! His life had 
been hers ; his blood, his fortune, his name, his whole heart 
ever since had been her’s and her children’s. All night long 
he was dreaming his boyhood over again, and waking fitfully ; 
he half fancied he heard Father Holt calling to him from the 
next chamber, and that he was coming in and out from the 
mysterious window. 

Esmond rose up before the dawn, passed into the next room, 
where the air was heavy with the odour of the wallflowers ; 
looked into the brazier where the papers had been burnt, into 
the old presses where Holt’s books and papers had been kept, 
and tried the spring and whether the window worked still. 
The spring had not been touched for years, but yielded at 
length, and the whole fabric of the window sank down. He 


Henry Esmond 40 1 

lifted it and it relapsed into its frame ; no one had ever passed 
thence since Holt used it sixteen years ago. 

Esmond remembered his poor lord saying, on the last day 
of his life, that Holt used to come in and out of the house 
like a ghost, and knew that the Father liked these mysteries, 
and practised such secret disguises, entrances and exits : this 
was the way the ghost came and went, his pupil had always 
conjectured. Esmond closed the casement up again as the 
dawn was rising over Castlewood village : he could hear the 
clinking at the blacksmith’s forge yonder among the trees, 
across the green, and past the river, on which a mist still lay 
sleeping. 

Next Esmond opened that long cupboard over the wood- 
work of the mantelpiece, big enough to hold a man, and in 
which Mr Holt used to keep sundry secret properties of his. 
The two swords he remembered so well as a boy, lay actually 
there still, and Esmond took them out and wiped them, with 
a strange curiosity of emotion. There were a bundle of papers 
here, too, which, no doubt, had been left at Holt’s last visit 
to the place, in my Lord Viscount’s life, that very day when 
the priest had been arrested and taken to Hexham Castle. 
Esmond made free with these papers, and found treasonable 
matter of King William’s reign, the names of Charnock and 
Perkins, Sir John Fenwick and Sir John Friend, Rookwood 
and Lodwick, Lords Montgomery and Ailesbury, Clarendon 
and Yarmouth, that had all been engaged in plots against the 
usurper ; a letter from the Duke of Berwick too, and one from 
the King at St Germains, offering to confer upon his trusty 
and well-beloved Francis Viscount Castlewood the titles of 
Earl and Marquis of Esmond, bestowed by patent roll, and in 
the fourth year of his reign, upon Thomas Viscount Castle- 
wood and the heirs-male of his body, in default of which issue 
the ranks and dignities were to pass to Francis aforesaid. 

This was the paper, whereof my Lord had spoken, which 
Holt showed him the very day he was arrested, and for an 
answer to which he would come back in a week’s time. I 
put these papers - hastily into the crypt whence I had taken 
them, being interrupted by a tapping of a light finger at the 
ring of the chamber-door : ’twas my kind mistress, with her 

2 c 


402 


The History of 

face full of love and welcome. She, too, had passed the night 
wakefully no doubt : but neither asked the other how the 
hours had been spent. There are things we divine without 
speaking, and know though they happen out of our sight. 
This fond lady hath told me that she knew both days when 
I was wounded abroad. Who shall say how far sympathy 
reaches, and how truly love can prophesy ? ** I looked into 

your room,” was all she said ; ‘‘ the bed was vacant, the little 
old bed : I knew I should find you here.” And tender and 
blushing faintly, with a benediction in her eyes, the gentle 
creature kissed him. 

They walked out, hand-in-hand, through the old court, and 
to the terrace-walk, where the grass was glistening with dew, 
and the birds in the green woods above were singing their 
delicious choruses under the blushing morning sky. How 
well all things were remembered ! The ancient towers and 
gables of the Hall darkling against the east, the purple 
shadows on the green slopes, the quaint devices and carvings 
of the dial, the forest-crowned heights, the fair yellow plain 
cheerful with crops and corn, the shining river rolling through 
it towards the pearly hills beyond ; all these were before us, j 
along with a thousand beautiful memories of our youth, beauti- 
ful and sad, but as real and vivid in our minds as that fair and i 
always-remembered scene our eyes beheld once more. We 
forget nothing. The memory sleeps, but wakens again; I 
often think how it shall be when, after the last sleep of death, 
the reveillee shall arouse us for ever, and the past in one flash 
of self-consciousness rush back, like the soul revivified. 

The house would not be up for some hours yet (it was July, 
and the dawn was only just awake), and here Esmond opened 
himself to his mistress of the business he had in hand, and what 
part Frank was to play in it. He knew he could confide any- 
thing to her, and that the fond soul would die rather than 
reveal it ; and bidding her keep the secret from all, he laid it 
entirely before his mistress (always as staunch a little loyalist 
as any in the kingdom), and indeed was quite sure that any plan 
of his was secure of her applause and sympathy. Never was 
such a glorious scheme to her partial mind, never such a devoted 
knight to execute it. An hour or two may have passed whilst 



THEV WALKED OaT HAND IN HAND. . . , - ,TO 
THE TERRACE WALK BOOK.lll. CHARVll. 














403 


Henry Esmond 

they were having their colloquy. Beatrix came out to them 
just as their talk was over *, her tall beautiful form robed in 
sable (which she wore without ostentation ever since last year’s 
catastrophe), sweeping over the green terrace, and casting its 
shadows before her across the grass. 

She made us one of her grand curtseys smiling, and called us 
“ the young people.” She was older, paler, and more majestic 
than in the year before ; her mother seemed the younger of the 
two. She never once spoke of her grief. Lady Castlewood told 
Esmond, or alluded, save by a quiet word or two, to the death 
of her hopes. 

When Beatrix came back to Castlewood she took to visiting 
all the cottages and all the sick. She set up a school of children, 
and taught singing to some of them. We had a pair of beautiful 
old organs in Castlewood Church, on which she played admir- 
ably, so that the music there became to be known in the country 
for many miles round, and no doubt people came to see the fair 
organist as well as to hear her. Parson Tusher and his wife were 
established at the vicarage, but his wife had brought him no 
children wherewith Tom might meet his enemies at the gate. 
Honest Tom took care not to have many such, his great shovel- 
hat was in his hand for everybody. He was profuse of bows 
and compliments. He behaved to Esmond as if the Colonel had 
been a Commander-in-Chief ; he dined at the Hall that day, 
being Sunday, and would not partake of pudding except under 
extreme pressure. He deplored my Lord’s perversion, but 
drank his Lordship’s health very devoutly ; and an hour before 
at church sent the Colonel to sleep, with a long, learned, and 
refreshing sermon. 

Esmond’s visit home was but for two days ; the business 
he had in hand calling him away and out of the country. 
Ere he went, he saw Beatrix but once alone, and then she 
summoned him out of the long tapestry room, where he and 
his mistress was sitting, quite as in old times, into the adjoin- 
ing chamber, that had been Viscountess Isabel’s sleeping 
II apartment, and where Esmond perfectly well remembered 
il seeing the old lady sitting up in the bed, in her night-rail, 
ii that morning when the troop of guard came to fetch her. The 
;i most beautiful woman in England lay in that bed now, whereof 


404 The History of 

the great damask hangings were scarce faded since Esmond 
saw them last. 

Here stood Beatrix in her black robes, holding a box in 
her hand ; ’twas that which Esmond had given her before 
her marriage, stamped with a coronet which the disappointed 
girl was never to wear ; and containing his aunt’s legacy of 
diamonds. 

‘‘ You had best take these with you, Harry,” says she ; I 
have no need of diamonds any more.” There was not the least 
token of emotion in her quiet low voice. She held out the 
black shagreen-case with her fair arm, that did not shake in 
the least. Esmond saw she wore a black velvet bracelet on it, 
with my Lord Duke’s picture in enamel ; he had given it her 
but three days before he fell. 

Esmond said the stones were his no longer, and strove to 
turn off that prolfered restoration with a laugh : Of what 
good,” says he, “are they to me The diamond loop to his 
hat did not set off Prince Eugene, and will not make my yellow 
face look any handsomer.” 

“You will give them to your wife. Cousin,” says she. “ My 
cousin, your wife has a lovely complexion and shape.” 

“ Beatrix,” Esmond burst out, the old fire flaming out as it 
would at times, “will you wear those trinkets at your marriage.? ! 
You whispered once you did not know me : you know me better * 
now : how I sought, wh... I have sighed for, for ten years, what I 
foregone ! ” | 

“ A price for your constancy, my Lord ! ” says she ; “ such a 
preux chevalier wants to be paid. Oh fie. Cousin ! ” 

“ Again,” Esmond spoke out, “ if I do something you have at I 
heart ; something worthy of me and you ; something that shall 
make me a name with which to endow you ; will you take it ? I 
There was a chance for me once, you said ; is it impossible to 
recall it ? Never shake your head, but hear me ; say you will 
hear me a year hence. If I come back to you and bring you 
fame, will that please you ? If I do what you desire most — 
what he who is dead desired most — will that soften you ? ” 

“ What is it, Henry .? ” says she, her face lighting up ; “ what 
mean you ? ” 

“ Ask no questions,” he said ; “ wait, and give me but time ; 


Henry Esmond 405 

if I bring back that you long for, that I have a thousand times 
heard you pray for, will you have no reward for him who has 
done you that service ? Put away those trinkets, keep them : 
it shall not be at my marriage, it shall not be at yours ; but if 
man can do it, I swear a day shall come when there shall be a 
feast in your house, and you shall be proud to wear them. I 
say no more now ; put aside these words, and lock away yonder 
box until the day when I shall remind you of both. All I pray 
of you now is, to wait and to remember.” 

“You are going out of the country ? ” says Beatrix, in some 
agitation. 

“Yes, to-morrow,” says Esmond. 

“To Lorraine, Cousin.?” says Beatrix, laying her hand on 
his arm ; ’twas the hand on which she wore the Duke’s bracelet. 
“Stay, Harry!” continued she, with a tone that had more 
despondency in it than she was accustomed to show. “ Hear a 
last word. I do love you. I do admire you — who would not, 
that has known such love as yours has been for us all ? But I 
think I have no heart ; at least, I have never seen the man that 
could touch it ; and, had I found him, I would have followed 
him in rags had he been a private soldier, or to sea, like one of 
those buccaneers you used to read to us about when we were 
children. I would do anything for such a man, bear anything 
for him : but I never found one. You were ever too much of a 
slave to win my heart ; even my Lord Duke could not command 
it. I had not been happy had I married him. I knew that 
three months after our engagement — and was too vain to break 
it. Oh, Harry I I cried once or twice, not for him, but with 
tears of rage, because I could not be sorry for him. I was 
frightened to find I was glad of his death ; and were I joined to 
you, I should have the same sense of servitude, the same longing 
to escape. We should both be unhappy, and you the most, who 
are as jealous as the Duke was himself. I tried to love him ; I 
tried, indeed I did : affected gladness when he came : submitted 
to hear when he was by me, and tried the wife’s part I thought 
I was to play for the rest of my days. But half-an-hour of 
that complaisance wearied me, and what would a lifetime be ? 
My thoughts were away when he was speaking ; and I was 
thinking. Oh that this man would drop my hand, and rise up 


4o 6 The History of 

from before my feet ! I knew his great and noble qualities, 
greater and nobler than mine a thousand times, as yours 
are. Cousin, I tell you, a million and a million times better. 
But ’twas not for these I took him. I took him to have a 
great place in the world, and I lost it. I lost it, and do not 
deplore him — and I often thought, as I listened to his fond 
vows and ardent words. Oh, if I yield to this man and meet 
the other, I shall hate him and leave him ! I am not good, 
Harry : my mother is gentle and good like an angel. I wonder 
how she should have had such a child. She is weak, but she 
would die rather than do a wrong ; I am stronger than she, 
but I would do it out of defiance. I do not care for what the 
parsons tell me with their droning sermons : I used to see them 
at Court as mean and as worthless as the meanest woman there. 
Oh, I am sick and weary of the world ! I wait but for one 
thing, and when ’tis done I will take Frank’s religion and your 
poor mother’s and go into a nunnery, and end like her. Shall 
I wear the diamonds then ? — they say the nuns wear their best 
trinkets the day they take the veil. I will put them away as 
you bid me. Farewell, Cousin : mamma is pacing the next 
room, racking her little head to know what we have been 
saying. She is jealous : all women are. I sometimes think 
that is the only womanly quality I have.” 

‘‘ Farewell. Farewell, brother.” She gave him her 
cheek as a brotherly privilege. The cheek was as cold as 
marble. 

Esmond’s mistress showed no signs of jealousy when he 
returned to the room where she was. She had schooled her- 
self so as to look quite inscrutably, when she had a mind. 
Amongst her other feminine qualities she had that of being 
a perfect dissembler. 

He rid away from Castlewood to attempt the task he was 
bound on, and stand or fall by it ; in truth his state of mind 
was such, that he was eager for some outward excitement 
to counteract that gnawing malady which he was inwardly 
enduring. 


Henry Esmond 


407 


Chapter VIII 

I travel to France, and bring Home a Portrait of Rigaud 

Mr Esmond did not think fit to take leave at Court, or to in- 
form all the world of Pall Mall and the coffee-houses, that he 
was about to quit England ; and chose to depart in the most 
private manner possible. He procured a pass as for a French- 
man, through Doctor Atterbury, who did that business for him, 
getting the signature even from Lord Bolingbroke’s office, with- 
out any personal application to the Secretary. Lockwood, his 
faithful servant, he took with him to Castlewood, and left 
behind there : giving out ere he left London that he himself 
was sick, and gone to Hampshire for country air, and so 
departed as silently as might be upon his business. 

As Frank Castlewood’s aid was indispensable for Mr 
Esmond’s scheme, his first visit was to Bruxelles (passing 
by way of Antwerp, where the Duke of Marlborough was 
in exile), and in the first-named place Harry found his dear 
young Benedict, the married man, who appeared to be rather 
out of humour with his matrimonial chain, and clogged with 
the obstinate embraces which Clotilda kept around his neck. 
Colonel Esnond was not presented to her ; but Monsieur 
Simon was, a gentleman of the Royal Cravat (Esmond be- 
thought him of the regiment of his honest Irishman, whom he 
had seen that day after Malplaquet, when he first set eyes on 
the young Kiag) *, and Monsieur Simon was introduced to the 
Viscountess Castlewood, nee Comptesse Wertheim ; to the 
numerous counts, the Lady Clotilda’s tall brothers ; to her 
father the chamberlain ; and to the lady his wife, Frank’s 
mother-in-law, a tall and majestic person of large proportions, 
such as became the mother of such a company of grenadiers 
as her warlike sons formed. The whole race were at free 
quarters in the little castle nigh to Bruxelles which Frank had 
taken ; rode his horses ; drank his wine ; and lived easily at the 
poor lad’s charges. Mr Esmond had always maintained a per- 
fect fluency in the French, which was his mother tongue ; and 
if this family (that spoke French with the twang which the 


40 8 The History of 

Flemings use) discovered any inaccuracy in Mr Simon’s pro- 
nunciation, ’twas to be attributed to the latter’s long residence 
in England, where he had married and remained ever since he 
was taken prisoner at Blenheim. His story was perfectly pat ; 
there were none there to doubt it save honest Frank, and he 
was charmed with his kinsman’s scheme, when he became 
acquainted with it ; and, in truth, always admired Colonel 
Esmond with an affectionate fidelity, and thought his cousin 
the wisest and best of all cousins and men. Frank entered 
heart and soul into the plan, and liked it the better as it was to 
take him to Paris, out of reach of his brothers, his father, and 
his mother-in-law, whose attentions rather fatigued him. 

Castlewood, I have said, was born in the same year as the 
Prince of Wales ; had not a little of the Prince’s air, height, 
and figure ; and, especially since he had seen the Chevalier de 
St George on the occasion before-named, took no small pride 
in his resemblance to a person so illustrious ; which likeness he 
increased by all means in his power, wearing fair brown peri- 
wigs, such as the Prince wore, and ribbons, and so forth, of 
the Chevalier’s colour. 

This resemblance was, in truth, the circumstance on which 
Mr Esmond’s schenae was founded ; and having secured Frank’s 
secrecy and enthusiasm, he left him to continue his journey, and 
see the other personages on whom its success depended. The 
place whither Mr Simon next travelled was Bar, in Lorraine, 
where that merchant arrived with a consignment of broadcloths, 
valuable laces from Malines, and letters for his correspondent 
there. 

Would you know how a prince, heroic from misfortunes, 
and descended from a line of kings, whose race seemed to be 
doomed like the Atfidae of old — would you know how he was 
employed, when the envoy who came to him through danger 
and difficulty beheld him for the first time ? The young King, 
in a flannel jacket, was at tennis with the gentlemen of his 
suite, crying out after the balls, and swearing lite the meanest 
of his subjects. The next time Mr Esmond saw him, ’twas 
when Monsieur Simon took a packet of laces to Miss Ogle- 
thorpe : the Prince’s ante-chamber in those days, at which 
ignoble door men were forced to knock for admission to His 


Henry Esmond 409 

Majesty. The admission was given, the envoy found the 
King and the mistress together ; the pair were at cards, 
and His Majesty was in liquor. He cared more for three 
honours than three kingdoms ; and a half-dozen glasses of 
ratafia made him forget all his woes and his losses, his father’s 
crown, and his grandfather’s head. 

Mr Esmond did not open himself to the Prince then. His 
Majesty was scarce in a condition to hear him; and he doubted 
whether a King who drank so much could keep a secret in his 
fuddled head ; or whether a hand that shook so, was strong 
enough to grasp at a crown. However, at last, and after 
taking counsel with the Prince’s advisers, amongst whom were 
many gentlemen, honest and faithful, Esmond’s plan was laid 
before the King, and her actual Majesty Queen Oglethorpe, 
in council. The Prince liked the scheme well enough : ’twas 
easy and daring, and suited to his reckless gaiety and lively 
youthful spirit. In the morning after he had slept his wine 
off he was very gay, lively, and agreeable. His manner had 
an extreme charm of archness, and a kind simplicity ; and, to 
do her justice, her Oglethorpean Majesty was kind, acute, 
resolute, and of good counsel ; she gave the Prince much 
good advice that he was too weak to follow, and loved him 
with a fidelity which he returned with an ingratitude quite 
royal. 

Having his own forebodings regarding his scheme should 
it ever be fulfilled, and his usual sceptic doubts as to the 
benefit which might accrue to the country by bringing a tipsy 
young monarch back to it. Colonel Esmond had his audience 
of leave, and quiet Monsieur Simon took his departure. At 
any rate the youth at Bar was as good as the older Pretender 
at Hanover ; if the worst came to the worst, the Englishman 
could be dealt with as easy as the German. Monsieur Simon 
trotted on that long journey from Nancy to Paris, and saw 
that famous town,, stealthily and like a spy, as in truth he 
was ; and where, sure, more magnificence and more misery 
is heaped together, more rags and lace, more filth and gilding, 
than in any city in this world. Here he was put in communi- 
cation with the King’s best friend, his half-brother, the famous 
Duke of Berwick ; Esmond recognised him as the stranger 


410 


The History of 

who had visited Castlewood now near twenty years ago. His 
Grace opened to him when he found that Mr Esmond was 
one of Webb’s brave regiment, that had once been his Grace’s 
own. He was the sword and buckler indeed of the Stuart 
cause ; there was no stain on his shield except the bar across 
it, which Marlborough’s sister left him. Had Berwick been 
his father’s heir, James the Third had assuredly sat on the 
English throne. He could dare, endure, strike, speak, be 
silent. The fire and genius, perhaps, he had not (that were 
given to baser men), but except these he had some of the best 
qualities of a leader. His Grace knew Esmond’s father and 
history ; and hinted at the latter in such a way as made the 
Colonel to think he was aware of the particulars of that story. 
But Esmond did not choose to enter on it, nor did the Duke 
press him. Mr Esmond said, “ No doubt he should come by 
his name if ever greater people came by theirs.” 

What confirmed Esmond in his notion that the Duke of 
Berwick knew of his case was, that when the Colonel went to 
pay his duty at St Germains, Her Majesty once addressed him 
by the title of Marquis. He took the Queen the dutiful 
remembrances of her god-daughter, and the lady whom, in 
the days of her prosperity. Her Majesty had befriended. The 
Queen remembered Rachel Esmond perfectly well, had heard 
of my Lord Castlewood’s conversion, and was much edified by 
that act of Heaven in his favour. She knew that others of 
that family had been of the only true Church too : “ Your 
father and your mother, M. le Marquis,” Her Majesty said 
(that was the only time she used the phrase). Monsieur 
Simon bowed very low, and said he had found other parents 
than his own, who had taught him differently ; but these had 
only one King : on which Her Majesty was pleased to give 
him a medal blessed by the Pope, which had been found very 
efficacious in cases similar to his own, and to promise she 
would offer up prayers for his conversion and that of the 
family, which no doubt this pious lady did, though up to 
the present moment, and after twenty-seven years. Colonel 
Esmond is bound to say that neither the medal nor the 
prayers have had the slightest known effect upon his religious 
convictions. 


Henry Esmond 411 

As for the splendours of Versailles, Monsieur Simon, the 
merchant, only beheld them as a humble and distant spectator, 
seeing the old King but once, when he went to feed his carps : 
and asking for no presentation at His Majesty’s Court. 

By this time my Lord Viscount Castlewood was got to 
Paris, where, as the London prints presently announced, her 
Ladyship was brought to bed of a son and heir. For a long 
while afterwards she was in a delicate state of health, and 
ordered by the physicians not to travel ; otherwise ’twas well 
known that the Viscount Castlewood proposed returning to 
England, and taking up his residence at his own seat. 

Whilst he remained at Paris, my Lord Castlewood had his 
picture done by the famous French painter. Monsieur Rigaud, 
a present for his mother in London ; and this piece Monsieur 
Simon took back with him when he returned to that city, 
which he reached about May, in the year 1714, very soon 
after which time my Lady Castlewood and her daughter, and 
their kinsman. Colonel Esmond, who had been at Castlewood 
all this time, likewise returned to London ; her Ladyship occu- 
pying her house at Kensington, Mr Esmond returning to his 
lodgings at Knightsbridge, nearer the town, and once more 
making his appearance at all public places, his health greatly 
improved by his long stay in the country. 

The portrait of my Lord, in a handsome gilt frame, was 
hung up in the place of honour in her Ladyship’s drawing-room. 
His Lordship was represented in his scarlet uniform of Captain 
of the Guard, with a light brown periwig, a cuirass under his 
coat, a blue ribbon, and a fall of Bruxelles lace. Many of her 
Ladyship’s friends admired the piece beyond measure, and 
flocked to see it ; Bishop Atterbury, Mr Lesly, good old Mr 
Collier, and others amongst the clergy, were delighted with 
the performance, and many among the first quality examined 
and praised it ; only I must own that Dr Tusher, happening to 
come up to Londtjn, and seeing the picture (it was ordinarily 
covered by a curtain, but on this day Miss Beatrix happened to 
be looking at it when the Doctor arrived), the Vicar of Castle- 
wood vowed he could not see any resemblance in the piece to 
his old pupil, except, perhaps, a little about the chin, and the 
periwig j but we all of us convinced him that he had not seen 


412 


The History of 

Frank for five years or more ; that he knew no more about the 
Fine Arts than a ploughboy, and that he must be mistaken ; 
and we sent him home assured that the piece was an excellent 
likeness. As for my Lord Bolingbroke, who honoured her 
Ladyship with a visit occasionally, when Colonel Esmond 
showed him the picture he burst out laughing, and asked 
what devilry he was engaged on ? Esmond owned simply 
that the portrait was not that of Viscount Castlewood; be- 
sought the Secretary on his honour to keep the secret ; said 
that the ladies of the house were enthusiastic Jacobites, as 
was well known ; and confessed that the picture was that 
of the Chevalier St George. 

The truth is, that Mr Simon, waiting upon Lord Castlewood 
one day at Monsieur Rigaud’s, whilst his Lordship was sitting 
for his picture, affected to be much struck with a piece re- 
presenting the Chevalier, whereof the head only was finished, 
and purchased it of the painter for a hundred crowns. It 
had been intended, the artist said, for Miss Oglethorpe, the 
Prince’s mistress, but that young lady quitting Paris, had left 
the work on the artist’s hands ; and taking this piece home, 
when my Lord’s portrait arrived. Colonel Esmond, alias 
Monsieur Simon, had copied the uniform and other acces- 
sories from my Lord’s picture to fill up Rigaud’s incomplete 
canvas : the Colonel all his life having been a practitioner 
of painting, and especially followed it during his long resi- 
dence in the cities of Flanders, among the masterpieces of 
Vandyck and Rubens. My grandson hath the piece, such 
as it is, in Virginia now. 

At the commencement of the month of June, Miss Beatrix 
Esmond, and my Lady Viscountess, her mother, arrived from 
Castlewood ; the former to resume her services at Court, 
which had been interrupted by the fatal catastrophe of Duke 
Hamilton’s death. She once more took her place, then, in 
Fler Majesty’s suite and at the Maid’s table, being always 
a favourite with Mrs Masham, the Queen’s chief woman, | 
partly perhaps on account of their bitterness against the 
Duchess of Marlborough, whom Miss Beatrix loved no better 
than her rival did. The gentlemen about the Court, my Lord 
Bolingbroke amongst others, owned that the young lady had 


Henry Esmond 413 

come back handsomer than ever, and that the serious and 
tragic air which her face now involuntarily wore became 
her better than her former smiles and archness. 

All the old domestics at the little house of Kensington 
Square were changed ; the old steward that had served the 
family any time these five-and -twenty years, since the birth 
of the children of the house, was despatched into the king- 
dom of Ireland to see my Lord’s estate there ; the house- 
keeper, who had been my Lady’s woman time out of mind, 
and the attendant of the young children, was sent away grum- 
bling to Walcote, to see to the new painting and preparing of 
that house, which my Lady Dowager intended to occupy for 
the future, giving up Castlewood to her daughter-in-law that 
might be expected daily from France, Another servant the 
Viscountess had was dismissed too — with a gratuity — on the 
pretext that her Ladyship’s train of domestics must be dimin- 
ished ; so, finally, there was not left in the household a single 
person who had belonged to it during the time my young 
Lord Castlewood was yet at home. 

For the plan which Colonel Esmond had in view, and the 
stroke he intended, ’twas necessary that the very smallest 
number of persons should be put in possession of his secret. 
It scarce was known, except to three or four out of his 
family, and it was kept to a wonder. 

On the loth of June 1714, there came by Mr Prior’s 
messenger from Paris a letter from my Lord Viscount Castle- 
wood to his mother, saying that he had been foolish in 
regard of money matters, that he was ashamed to own he 
had lost at play, and by other extravagances ; and that 
instead of having great entertainments as he had hoped at 
Castlewood this year, he must live as quiet as he could, 
and make every effort to be saving. So far every word 
of poor Frank’s letter was true, nor was there a doubt 
that he and his. tall brothers-in-law had spent a great deal 
more than they ought, and engaged the revenues of the 
Castlewood property, which the fond mother had husbanded 
and improved so carefully during the time of her guardian- 
ship. 

“His Clotilda,” Castlewood went on to say, “was still 


414 The History of 

delicate, and the physicians thought her lying-in had best take 
place at Paris. He should come without her Ladyship, and 
be at his mother’s house about the 17th or l8th day of June, 
proposing to take horse from Paris immediately, and bringing 
but a single servant with him ; and he requested that the 
lawyers of Gray’s Inn might be invited to meet him with 
their account, and the land-steward come from Castlewood 
with his, so that he might settle with them speedily, raise 
a sum of money whereof he stood in need, and be back to 
his Viscountess by the time of her lying-in.” Then his 
Lordship gave some of the news of the town, sent his re- 
membrance to kinsfolk, and so the letter ended. ’Twas put 
in the common post, and no doubt the French police and the 
English there had a copy of it, to which they were exceeding 
welcome. 

Two days after another letter was despatched by the public 
post of France, in the same open way, and this, after giving 
news of the fashion at Court there, ended by the following 
sentences, in which, but for those that had the key, ’twould be 
difficult for any man to find any secret lurked at all : — 

‘‘ (The King will take) medicine on Thursday. His Majesty 
is better than he hath been of late, though incommoded by 
indigestion from his too great appetite. Madame Maintenon 
continues well. They have performed a play of Mons. 
Racine at St Cyr. The Duke of Shrewsbury and Mr Prior, 
our envoy, and all the English nobility here, were present 
at it. (The Viscount Castlewood’s passports) were refused 
to him, ’twas said ; his Lordship being sued by a goldsmith for 
Vaisselle plate, and a pearl necklace supplied to Mademoiselle 
Meruel of the French Comedy. ’Tis a pity such news should 
get abroad (and travel to England) about our young nobility 
here. Mademoiselle Meruel has been sent to the Fort 
I’Evesque; they say she has ordered not only plate, but 
furniture, and a chariot and horses (under that Lord’s name), of 
which extravagance his unfortunate Viscountess knows nothing. 

‘‘ (His Majesty will be) eighty-two years of age on his next 
birthday. The Court prepares to celebrate it with a great 
feast. Mr Prior is in a sad way about their refusing at home 


Henry Esmond 415 

to send him his plate. All here admired my Lord Viscount’s 
portrait, and said it was a masterpiece of Rigaud. Have 
you seen it ? It is (at the Lady Castlewood’s house in 
Kensington Square). I think no English painter could pro- 
duce such a piece. 

“ Our poor friend the Abbe hath been at the Bastile, but 
is now transported to the Conciergerie (where his friends 
may visit him. They are to ask for) a remission of his 
sentence soon. Let us hope the poor rogue will have re- 
pented in prison. 

“ (The Lord Castlewood) has had the affair of the plate 
made up, and departs for England. 

‘‘ Is not this a dull letter ? I have a cursed headache with 
drinking with Mat and some more over-night, and tipsy or 
sober am Thine ever ” 

All this letter save some dozen of words which I have put 
above between brackets, was mere idle talk, though the 
substance of the letter was as important as any letter well 
could be. It told those that had the key, that The King will 
take the Viscount CastlewooTs passports and travel to England 
under that lord^s name. His Majesty will he at the Lady 
Castlewood^ s house in Kensington Square, where his friends may 
visit him. They are to ash for the Lord Castlewood, This 
note may have passed under Mr Prior’s eyes, and those of 
our new allies the French, and taught them nothing ; though 
it explains sufficiently to persons in London what the event 
was which was about to happen, as ’twill show those who 
read my Memoirs a hundred years hence, what was that 
errand on which Colonel Esmond of late had been busy. 
Silently and swiftly to do that about which others were 
conspiring, and thousands of Jacobites all over the country 
clumsily caballing ; alone to effect that which the leaders here 
were only talking* about ; to bring the Prince of Wales into 
the country openly in the face of all, under Bolingbroke’s 
very eyes, the walls placarded with the proclamation signed 
with the Secretary’s name, and offering five hundred pounds’ 
reward for his apprehension : this was a stroke, the playing 
and winning of which might well give any adventurous spirit 


41 6 The History of 

pleasure : the loss of the stake might involve a heavy penalty, 
but all our family were eager to risk that for the glorious 
chance of winning the game. 

Nor should it be called a game, save perhaps with the chief 
player, who was not more or less sceptical than most public 
men with whom he had acquaintance in that age. (Is there 
ever a public man in England that altogether believes in his 
party ? Is there one, however doubtful, that will not fight 
for it ?) Young Frank was ready to fight without much 
thinking ; he was a Jacobite as his father before him was ; 
all the Esmonds were Royalists. Give him but the word, he 
would cry, ‘‘ God save King James ! ” before the palace guard, ' 
or at the Maypole in the Strand ; and with respect to the j 
women, as is usual with them, ’twas not a question of party 
but of faith : their belief was a passion ; either Esmond’s 
mistress or her daughter would have died for it cheerfully. ^ 
I have laughed often, talking of King William’s reign, and ^ 
said I thought Lady Castlewood was disappointed the King 
did not persecute the family more : and those who know the j 
nature of women may fancy for themselves what needs not i 
here be written down, the rapture with which these neophytes j 
received the mystery when made known to them ; the eager- j 
ness with which they looked forward to its completion ; the i 
reverence which they paid the minister who initiated them ' 
into that secret Truth, now known only to a few, but presently 
to reign over the world. Sure there is no bound to the 
trustingness of women. Look at Arria worshipping the ’ 
drunken clodpate of a husband who beats her : look at Cor- 
nelia treasuring as a jewel in her maternal heart the oaf her 
son. I have known a woman preach Jesuit’s bark, and after- 
wards Dr Berkeley’s tar-water, as though to swallow them 
were a divine decree, and to refuse them no better than 
blasphemy. 

On his return from France Colonel Esmond put himself at ■ 
the head of this little knot of fond conspirators. No death or 
torture he knew would frighten them out of their constancy. 
When he detailed his plan for bringing the King back, his j 
elder mistress thought that that Restoration was to be attri- : 
buted under Heaven to the Castlewood family and to its 1 


Henry Esmond 417 

chief, and she worshipped and loved Esmond, if that could 
be, more than ever she had done. She doubted not for one 
moment of the success of his scheme, to mistrust which would 
have seemed impious in her eyes. And as for Beatrix, when 
she became acquainted with the plan, and joined it, as she did 
with all her heart, she gave Esmond one of her searching 
bright looks. ‘‘ Ah, Harry,” says she, “ why were you not 
the head of our house ? You are the only one fit to raise it ; 
why do you give that silly boy the name and the honour ? 
But ’tis so in the world : those get the prize that don’t deserve 
or care for it. I wish I could give you your silly prize. 
Cousin, but I can’t : I have tried, and I can’t.” And she went 
away, shaking her head mournfully, but always, it seemed to 
Esmond, that her liking and respect for him was greatly in- 
creased, since she knew what capability he had both to act 
and bear ; to do and to forego. 


Chapter IX 

The Original of the Portrait comes to England 

’Twas announced in the family that my Lord Castlewood 
would arrive, having a confidential French gentleman in his 
suite, who acted as secretary to his Lordship, and who, being 
a Papist, and a foreigner of a good family, though now in 
rather a menial place, would have his meals served in his 
chamber, and not with the domestics of the house. The 
Viscountess gave up her bedchamber contiguous to her 
daughter’s, and having a large convenient closet attached to 
it, in which a bed was put up, ostensibly for Monsieur 
Baptiste, the Frenchman ; though, ’tis needless to say, when 
the doors of the apartments were locked, and the two guests 
retired within it, the young Viscount became the servant of 
the illustrious Prince whom he entertained, and gave up 
gladly the more convenient and airy chamber and bed to his 
master. Madame Beatrix also retired to the upper region, 
her chamber being converted into a sitting-room for my Lord. 
The better to carry the deceit, Beatrix affected to grumble 

2 D 


41 8 The History of 

before the servants and to be jealous that she was turned out 
of her chamber to make way for my Lord. 

No small preparations were made, you may be sure, and no 
slight tremor of expectation caused the hearts of the gentle 
ladies of Castlewood to flutter, before the arrival of the person- 
ages who were about to honour their house. The chamber 
was ornamented with flowers ; the bed covered with the very 
finest of linen ; the two ladies insisting on making it them- 
selves, and kneeling down at the bedside and kissing the 
sheets out of respect for the web that was to hold the sacred 
person of a king. The toilet was of silver and crystal ; there 
was a copy of “ Eikon Basilike ” laid on the writing-table ; a 
portrait of the martyred King hung always over the mantel, 
having a sword of my poor Lord Castlewood underneath it, 
and a little picture or emblem which the widow loved always 
to have before her eyes on waking, and in which the hair of 
her lord and her two children was worked together. Her 
books of private devotions, as they were all of the English 
Church, she carried away with her to the upper apartment, 
which she destined for herself. The ladies showed Mr 
Esmond, when they were completed, the fond preparations 
they had made. ’Twas then Beatrix knelt down and kissed 
the linen sheets. As for her mother. Lady Castlewood made 
a curtesy at the door, as she would have done to the altar on 
entering a church, and owned that she considered the chamber 
in a manner sacred. 

The company in the servants’ hall never for a moment sup- 
posed that these preparations were made for any other person 
than the young Viscount, the lord of the house, whom his 
fond mother had been for so many years without seeing. 
Both ladies were perfect housewives, having the greatest skill 
in the making of confections, scented waters, &c., and keeping 
a notable superintendence over the kitchen. Calves enough 
were killed to feed an army of prodigal sons, Esmond thought, 
and laughed when he came to wait on the ladies, on the day 
when the guests were to arrive, to find two pairs of the finest 
and roundest arms to be seen in England (my Lady Castlewood 
was remarkable for this beauty of her person), covered with 
flour up above the elbows, and preparing paste, and turning 


419 


Henry Esmond 


rolling-pins in the housekeeper’s closet. The guest would 
not arrive till supper time, and my Lord would prefer having 
that meal in his own chamber. You may be sure the brightest 
plate of the house was laid out there, and can understand why 
it was that the ladies insisted that they alone would wait upon 
the young chief of the family. 

Taking horse. Colonel Esmond rode rapidly to Rochester, 
and there awaited the King in that very town where his father 
had last set his foot on the English shore. A room had been 
provided at an inn there for my Lord Castlewood and his 
servant ; and Colonel Esmond timed his ride so well that he 
had scarce been half-an-hour in the place, and was looking 
over the balcony into the yard of the inn, when two travellers 
rode in at the inn gate, and the Colonel running down, the 
next moment embraced his dear young lord. 

My Lord’s companion acting the part of a domestic, dis- 
mounted, and was for holding the Viscount’s stirrup ; but 
Colonel Esmond, calling to his own man, who was in the 
court, bade him take the horses and settle with the lad who 
had ridden the post along with the two travellers, crying out 
: in a cavalier tone in the French language to my Lord’s com- 
panion, and affecting to grumble that my Lord’s fellow was 
a Frenchman, and did not know the money or habits of the 
I country : — ‘‘ My man will see to the horses, Baptiste,” says 
) Colonel Esmond: “do you understand English.'”’ “Very 
{ leetle ? ” “ So, follow my Lord and wait upon him at dinner 

j in his own room.” The landlord and his people came up 
presently bearing the dishes ; ’twas well they made a noise 
and stir in the gallery, or they might have found Colonel 
•i Esmond on his knee before Lord Castlewood’s servant, wel- 
: coming His Majesty to his kingdom, and kissing the hand of 
' the King. We told the landlord that the Frenchman would 

1 ' wait on his master *, and Esmond’s man was ordered to keep 
sentry in the gallery without the door. The Prince dined 
; with a good appetite, laughing and talking very gaily, and 
[ condescendingly bidding his two companions to sit with him 
: at table. He was in better spirits than poor Frank Castle- 
1 1 wood, who Esmond thought might be woe-begone on account 
j I of parting with his divine Clotilda ; but the Prince wishing 


1 


420 


The History of 

to take a short siesta after dinner, and retiring to an inner 
chamber where there was a bed, the cause of poor Frank’s 
discomfiture came out ; and bursting into tears, with many ex- 
pressions of fondness, friendship, and humiliation, the faithful 
lad gave his kinsman to understand that he now knew all the 
truth, and the sacrifices which Colonel Esmond had made for 
him. 

Seeing no good in acquainting poor Frank with that secret, 
Mr Esmond had entreated his mistress also not to reveal it to 
her son. The Prince had told the poor lad all as they were 
riding from Dover : “ I had as lief he had shot me. Cousin,” 
Frank said. ‘‘ I knew you were the best, and the bravest, and 
the kindest of all men ” (so the enthusiastic young fellow went 
on); ‘‘but I never thought I owed you what I do, and can 
scarce bear the weight of the obligation.” 

“I stand in the place of your father,” says Mr Esmond 
kindly, “ and sure a father may dispossess himself in favour of 
his son. I abdicate the twopenny crown, and invest you with 
the kingdom of Brentford ; don’t be a fool and cry ; you make 
a much taller and handsomer Viscount than ever I could.” But 
the fond boy, with oaths, and protestations, laughter and in- 
coherent outbreaks of passionate emotion, could not be got, 
for some little time, to put up with Esmond’s raillery ; wanted 
to kneel down to him, and kissed his hand ; asked him and 
implored him to order something, to bid Castlewood give his 
own life, or take somebody else’s ; anything, so that he might 
show his gratitude for the generosity Esmond showed him. 

“The K , he laughed,” Frank said, pointing to the door 

where the sleeper was, and speaking in a low tone. “ I don’t 
think he should have laughed as he told me the story. As 
we rode along from Dover, talking in French, he spoke about 
you, and your coming to him at Bar ; he called you ‘ le grand 
serieux,’ Don Bellianis of Greece, and I don’t know what 
names; mimicking your manner” (here Castlewood laughed 
himself) — “ and he did it very well. He seems to sneer at 
everything. He is not like a king ; somehow, Harry, I fancy 
you are like a king. He does not seem to think what a stake 
we are all playing. He would have stopped at Canterbury to 
run after a barmaid there, had I not implored him to come on. 


421 


Henry Esmond 

He hath a house at Chaillot where he used to go and bury 
himself for weeks away from the Queen, and with all sorts of 
bad company,” says Frank, with a demure look. ‘‘ You may 
smile, but I am not the wild fellow I was ; no, no, I have 
been taught better,” says Castlewood devoutly, making a sign 
on his breast. 

** Thou art my dear brave boy,” says Colonel Esmond, 
touched at the young fellow’s simplicity, ‘‘ and there will be 
a noble gentleman at Castlewood so long as my Frank is 
there.” The impetuous young lad was for going down on his 
knees again, with another explosion of gratitude, but that we 
heard the voice from the next chamber of the august sleeper, 
just waking, calling out, “ Eh, La Fleur, un verre d’eau ! ” 
His Majesty came out yawning : — “ A pest,” says he, ‘‘ upon 
your English ale, ’tis so strong that, ma foiy it hath turned my 
head.” 

The effect of the ale was like a spur upon our horses, and we 
rode very quickly to London, reaching Kensington at nightfall. 
Mr Esmond’s servant was left behind at Rochester to take 
care of the tired horses, whilst we had fresh beasts provided 
i along the road. And galloping by the Prince’s side the Colonel 
; explained to the Prince of Wales what his movements had 
; been ; who the friends were that knew of the expedition ; 
I whom, as Esmond conceived, the Prince should trust ; entreat- 
i ing him, above all, to maintain the very closest secrecy until 
the time should come when his Royal Highness should appear. 
The town swarmed with friends of the Prince’s cause; there 
were scores' of correspondents with St Germains ; Jacobites 

1 known and secret; great in station and humble; about the Court 
and the Queen ; in the Parliament, Church, and among the 
merchants in the city. The Prince had friends numberless in 
the army, in the Privy Council, and the Officers of State. The 
great object, as it seemed, to the small band of persons who 
had concerted that bold stroke, who had brought the Queen’s 
brother into his native country, was, that his visit should 
remain unknown till the proper time came, when his presence 
should surprise friends and enemies alike ; and the latter should 
be found so unprepared and disunited, that they should not 
find time to attack him. We feared more from his friends 


422 


The History of 

than from his enemies. The lies and tittle-tattle sent over 
to St Germains by the Jacobite agents about London, had 
done an incalculable mischief to his cause, and woefully mis- 
guided him, and it was from these especially, that the persons 
engaged in the present venture were anxious to defend the 
chief actor in it.^ 

The party reached London by nightfall, leaving their horses 
at the Posting-House over against Westminster, and being 
ferried over the water where Lady Esmond’s coach was already 
in waiting. In another hour we were all landed at Kensington, 
and the mistress of the house had that satisfaction which her 
heart had yearned after for many years, once more to embrace 
her son, who, on his side, with all his waywardness, ever 
retained a most tender affection for his parent. 

She did not refrain from this expression of her feeling, 
though the domestics were by, and my Lord Castlewood’s 
attendant stood in the hall. Esmond had to whisper to him 
in French to take his hat off. Monsieur Baptiste was con- 
stantly neglecting his part with an inconceivable levity ; more 
than once on the ride to London, little observations of the 
stranger, light remarks, and words betokening the greatest 
ignorance of the country the Prince came to govern, had hurt 
the susceptibility of the two gentlemen forming his escort ; 
nor could either help owning in his secret mind that they 
would have had his behaviour otherwise, and that the laughter 
and the lightness, not to say license, which characterised his 
talk, scarce befitted such a great Prince, and such a solemn 
occasion. Not but that he could act at proper times with 
spirit and dignity. He had behaved, as we all knew, in a 
very courageous manner on the field. Esmond had seen a 
copy of the letter the Prince had writ with his own hand 
when urged by his friends in England to abjure his religion, 
and admired that manly and magnanimous reply by which he 
refused to yield to the temptation. Monsieur Baptiste took 
off his hat, blushing at the hint Colonel Esmond ventured to 

* The managers were the Bishop, who cannot be hurt by having his name 
mentioned, a very active and loyal Nonconformist Divine, a lady in the highest 
favour at Court, with whom Beatrix Esmond had communication, and two 
noblemen of the greatest rank, and a member of the House of Commons, who 
was implicated in more transactions than one in behalf of the Stuart family. 


Henry Esmond 423 

give him, and said, “ Tenez, elle est jolie, la petite mere. 
Foi de Chevalier ! elle est charmante ; mais Tautre, qui est 
cette nymphe, cet astre qui brille, cette Diane qui descend 
sur nous ? ” And he started back, and pushed forward, as 
Beatrix was descending the stair. She was in colours for the 
first time at her own house ; she wore the diamonds Esmond 
gave her ; it had been agreed between them that she should 
wear these brilliants on the day when the King should enter 
the house, and a Queen she looked, radiant in charms, and 
magnificent and imperial in beauty. 

Castlewood himself was startled by that beauty and 
splendour ; he stepped back and gazed at his sister as though 
he had not been aware before (nor was he very likely) how 
perfectly lovely she was, and I thought blushed as he em- 
braced her. The Prince could not keep his eyes off her ; he 
! quite forgot his menial part, though he had been schooled to 
! it, and a little light portmanteau prepared expressly that he 
j should carry it. He pressed forward before my Lord Viscount. 
’Twas lucky the servants’ eyes were busy in other directions, 
or they must have seen that this was no servant, or at least 
ij a very insolent and rude one. 

I Again Colonel Esmond was obliged to cry out, ‘‘Baptiste,” 
in a loud imperious voice, “ have a care to the valise ! ” at 
which hint the wilful young man ground his teeth together 
with something very like a curse between them, and then gave 
a brief look of anything but pleasure to his Mentor. Being 
reminded, however, he shouldered the little portmanteau, and 
carried it up the stair, Esmond preceding him, and a servant 
with lighted tapers. He flung down his burden sulkily in 
the bedchamber : — “ A Prince that will wear a crown must 
wear a mask,” says Mr Esmond in French. 

“ Ah peste ! I see how it is,” says Monsieur Baptiste, con- 
tinuing the talk in French. “ The Great Serious is seriously ” 

<< Alarmed for Monsieur Baptiste,” broke in the Colonel. 

Esmond neither liked the tone with which the Prince spoke 
of the ladies, nor the eyes with which he regarded them. 

The bedchamber and the two rooms adjoining it, the closet 
and the apartment which was to be called my Lord’s parlour, 
were already lighted and awaiting their occupier ; and the 


424 


The History of 

collation laid for my Lord’s supper. Lord Castlewood and 
his mother and sister came up the stair a minute afterwards, 
and, so soon as the domestics had quitted the apartment, 
Castlewood and Esmond uncovered, and the two ladies went 
down on their knees before the Prince, who graciously gave 
a hand to each. He looked his part of Prince much more 
naturally than that of servant, which he had just been trying, 
and raised them both with a great deal of nobility as well as 
kindness in his air. “ Madam,” says he, “ my mother will 
thank your Ladyship for your hospitality to her son ; for you, 
madam,” turning to Beatrix, ‘‘ I cannot bear to see so much 
beauty in such a posture. You will betray Monsieur Baptiste 
if you kneel to him ; sure ’tis his place rather to kneel to you.” 

A light shone out of her eyes ; a gleam bright enough to 
kindle passion in any breast. There were times when this 
creature was so handsome, that she seemed, as it were, like 
Venus revealing herself a goddess in a flash of brightness. 
She appeared so now ; radiant, and with eyes bright with a 
wonderful lustre. A pang, as of rage and jealousy, shot 
through Esmond’s heart, as he caught the look she gave the 
Prince ; and he clenched his hand involuntarily, and looked 
across to Castlewood, whose eyes answered his alarm-signal, 
and were also on the alert. The Prince gave his subjects an 
audience of a few minutes, and then the two ladies and Colonel 
Esmond quitted the chamber. Lady Castlewood pressed his 
hand as they descended the stair, and the three went down to 
the lower rooms, where they waited awhile till the travellers 
above should be refreshed and ready for their meal. 

Esmond looked at Beatrix, blazing with her jewels on her 
beautiful neck. “ I have kept my word,” says he. 

‘‘ And I mine,” says Beatrix, looking down on the diamonds. 

‘‘Were I the Mogul Emperor,” says the Colonel, “you 
should have all that were dug out of Golconda.” 

“These are a great deal too good for me,” says Beatrix, 
dropping her head on her beautiful breast, — “ so are you all, 
all ! ” And when she looked up again, as she did in a moment, 
and after a sigh, her eyes, as they gazed at her cousin, wore 
that melancholy and inscrutable look which ’twas always im- 
possible to sound. 


Henry Esmond 425 

When the time came for the supper, of which we were 
advertised by a knocking overhead, Colonel Esmond and the 
two ladies went to the upper apartment, where the Prince 
already was, and by his side the young Viscount, of exactly 
the same age, shape, and with features not dissimilar, though 
Frank’s were the handsomer of the two. The Prince sat down 
and bade the ladies sit. The gentlemen remained standing : 
there was, indeed, but one more cover laid at the table : — 
‘‘ Which of you will take it ” says he. 

“ The head of our house,” says Lady Castlewood, taking her 
son’s hand, and looking towards Colonel Esmond with a bow 
and a great tremor of the voice ; “ the Marquis of Esmond will 
have the honour of serving the King.” 

“ I shall have the honour of waiting on his Royal Highness,” 
says Colonel Esmond, filling a cup of wine, and, as the fashion 
of that day was, he presented it to the King on his knee. 

‘‘ I drink to my hostess and her family,” says the Prince, with 
no very well-pleased air ; but the cloud passed immediately off 
his face, and he talked to the ladies in a lively, rattling strain, 
quite undisturbed by poor Mr Esmond’s yellow countenance, 
that, I dare say, looked very glum. 

When the time came to take leave, Esmond marched home- 
wards to his lodgings, and met Mr Addison on the road that 
night, walking to a cottage he had at Fulham, the moon shining 
on his handsome, serene face : — “ What cheer, brother ? ” says 
Addison, laughing : ‘‘I thought it was a footpad advancing in 
the dark, and behold ’tis an old friend. We may shake hands. 
Colonel, in the dark, ’tis better than fighting by daylight. 
Why should we quarrel, because I am a Whig and thou art a 
Tory ? Turn thy steps and walk with me to Fulham, where 
there is a nightingale .still singing in the garden, and a cool 
bottle in a cave I know of ; you shall drink to the Pretender 
if you like, and I will drink my liquor my own way : I have 
had enough of good liquor ? — no, never ! There is no such 
word as enough as a stopper for good wine. Thou wilt not 
come ? Come any day, come soon. You know I remember 
Simois and the Sigeia tellus, and the preelia mixta mero^ mixta 
mero^"* he repeated, with ever so slight a touch of tnerum in his 
voice, and walked back a little way on the road with Esmond, 


426 The History of 

bidding the other remember he was always his friend, and 
indebted to him for his aid in the “ Campaign ” poem. And 
very likely Mr Under-Secretary would have stepped in and 
taken t’other bottle at the Colonel’s lodging, had the latter 
invited him, but Esmond’s mood was none of the gayest, and he 
bade his friend an inhospitable good-night at the door. 

“ I have done the deed,” thought he, sleepless, and looking 
out into the night ; “ he is here, and I have brought him ; he 
and Beatrix are sleeping under the same roof now. Whom 
did I mean to serve in bringing him ? Was it the Prince ? 
was it Henry Esmond ? Had I not best have joined the 
manly creed of Addison yonder, that scouts the old doctrine 
of right divine, that boldly declares that Parliament and people 
consecrate the Sovereign, not bishops, nor genealogies, nor 
oils, nor coronations.” The eager gaze of the young Prince, 
watching every movement of Beatrix, haunted Esmond and 
pursued him. The Prince’s figure appeared before him in his 
feverish dreams many times that night. He wished the deed 
undone for which he had laboured so. He was not the first 
that has regretted his own act, or brought about his own un- 
doing. Undoing ? Should he write that word in his late 
years ? No, on his knees before Heaven, rather be thankful for 
what then he deemed his misfortune, and which hath caused 
the whole subsequent happiness of his life. 

Esmond’s man, honest John Lockwood, had served his 
master and the family all his life, and the Colonel knew that 
he could answer for John’s fidelity as for his own. John 
returned with the horses from Rochester betimes the next 
morning, and the Colonel gave him to understand that on 
going to Kensington, where he was free of the servants’ hall, 
and indeed courting Miss Beatrix’s maid, he was to ask no 
questions, and betray no surprise, but to vouch stoutly that 
the young gentleman he should see in a red coat there was 
my Lord Viscount Castlewood, and that his attendant in grey 
was Monsieur Baptiste the Frenchman. He was to tell his 
friends in the kitchen such stories as he remembered of my 
Lord Viscount’s youth at Castlewood ; what a wild boy he 
was ; how he used to drill Jack and cane him, before ever he 
was a soldier; everything, in fine, he knew respecting my 


Henry Esmond 427 

Lord Viscount’s early days. Jack’s ideas of painting had not 
been much cultivated during his residence in Flanders with 
his master ; and, before my young lord’s return, he had been 
easily got to believe that the picture brought over from Paris, 
and now hanging in Lady Castlewood’s drawing-room, was a 
perfect likeness of her son, the young lord. And the domestics 
having all seen the picture many times, and catching but a 
momentary imperfect glimpse of the two strangers on the night 
of their arrival, never had a reason to doubt the fidelity of the 
portrait ; and next day, when they saw the original of the piece 
habited exactly as he was represented in the painting, with 
the same periwig, ribands, and uniform of the Guard, quite 
naturally addressed the gentleman as my Lord Castlewood, my 
Lady Viscountess’s son. 

The secretary of the night previous was now the Viscount j 
the Viscount wore the Secretary’s grey frock ; and John 
Lockwood was instructed to hint to the world below stairs 
that my Lord being a Papist, and very devout in that religion, 
his attendant might be no other than his chaplain from 
Bruxelles ; hence, if he took his meals in my Lord’s company 
there was little reason for surprise. Frank was further 
cautioned to speak English with a foreign accent, which 
task he performed indifferently well, and this caution was 
the more necessary because the Prince himself scare spoke 
our language like a native of the island : and John Lock- 
wood laughed with the folks below stairs at the manner in 
which my Lord, after five years abroad, sometimes forgot 
his own tongue and spoke it like a Frenchman. “ I warrant,” 
says he, ‘‘ that with the English beef and beer, his Lordship 
will soon get back the proper use of his mouth ; ” and, to 
do his new Lordship justice, he took to beer and beef very 
kindly. 

The Prince drank so much, and was so loud and imprudent 
in his talk after his drink, that Esmond often trembled for 
him. His meals were served as much as possible in his own 
chamber, though frequently he made his appearance in Lady 
Castlewood’s parlour and drawing-room, calling Beatrix 

sister,” and her Ladyship “ mother,” or “ madam,” before 
the servants. And, choosing to act entirely up to the part of 


4'28 The History of 

brother and son, the Prince sometimes saluted Mrs Beatrix 
and Lady Castlewood with a freedom which his secretary did 
not like, and which, for his part, set Colonel Esmond tearing 
with rage. 

The guests had not been three days in the house when poor 
Jack Lockwood came with a rueful countenance to his master, 
and said : “ My Lord — that is, the gentleman — has been 
tampering with Mrs Lucy ” (Jack’s sweetheart), ‘‘and given 
her guineas and a kiss.” I fear that Colonel Esmond’s mind 
was rather relieved than otherwise when he found that 
the ancillary beauty was the one whom the Prince had 
selected. His Royal tastes were known to lie that way, 
and continued so in after life. The heir of one of the 
greatest names, of the greatest kingdoms, and of the greatest 
misfortunes in Europe, was often content to lay the dignity of 
his birth and grief at the wooden shoes of a French chamber- 
maid, and to repent afterwards (for he was very devout) in 
ashes taken from the dust-pan. ’Tis for mortals such as these 
that nations suffer, that parties struggle, that warriors fight 
and bleed. A year afterwards gallant heads were falling, and 
Nithsdale in escape, and Derwentwater on the scaffold *, whilst 
the heedless ingrate, for whom they risked and lost all, was 
tippling with his seraglio of mistresses in his petite iTiaison of 
Chaillot. 

Blushing to be forced to bear such an errand, Esmond had to 
go to the Prince and warn him that the girl whom his High- 
ness was bribing was John Lockwood’s sweetheart, an honest 
resolute man, who had served in six campaigns, and feared 
nothing, and who knew that the person calling himself Lord 
Castlewood was not his young master : and the Colonel be- 
sought the Prince to consider what the effect of a single man’s 
jealousy might be, and to think of other designs he had in 
hand, more important than the seduction of a waiting-maid, 
and the humiliation of a brave man. 

Ten times, perhaps, in the course of as many days, Mr Esmond 
had to warn the royal young adventurer of some imprudence or 
some freedom. He received these remonstrances very testily, 
save perhaps in this affair of poor Lockwood’s, when he deigned 
to burst out a-laughing, and said, “ What ! the soubrette has 


Henry Esmond 429 

peached to the amoureux, and Crispin is angry, and Crispin has 
served, and Crispin has been a Corporal, has he ? Tell him we 
will reward his valour with a pair of colours, and recompense 
his fidelity.” 

Colonel Esmond ventured to utter some other words of en- 
treaty, but the Prince, stamping imperiously, cried out, “ Assez, 
milord : je m’ennuye a la preche ; I am not come to London to 
go to the sermon.” And he complained afterwards to Castle- 
wood, that ‘‘ le petit jaune, le noir Colonel, le Marquis Misan- 
thrope” (by which facetious names his Royal Highness was 
pleased to designate Colonel Esmond), fatigued him with his 
grand airs and virtuous homilies.” 

The Bishop of Rochester, and other gentlemen engaged in 
the transaction which had brought the Prince over, waited upon 
his Royal Highness, constantly asking for my Lord Castlewood 
on their arrival at Kensington, and being openly conducted to his 
Royal Highness in that character, who received them either in 
my Lady’s drawing-room below, or above in his own apartment ; 
and all implored him to quit the house as little as possible, and 
to wait there till the signal should be given for him to appear. 
The ladies entertained him at cards, over which amusement he 
spent many hours in each day and night. He passed many 
hours more in drinking, during which time he would rattle and 
talk very agreeably, and especially if the Colonel was absent, 
whose presence always seemed to frighten him ; and the poor 
‘‘ Colonel Noir ” took that hint as a command accordingly, and 
seldom intruded his black face upon the convivial hours of this 
august young prisoner. Except for those few persons of whom 
the porter had the list. Lord Castlewood was denied to all 
friends of the house who waited on his Lordship. The wound 
he had received had Broke out again from his journey on horse- 
back, so the world and the domestics were informed. And 

Doctor A ,* his physician (I shall not mention his name, but 

he was physician to the Queen, of the Scots nation, and a man 
remarkable for his benevolence as well as his wit), gave orders 
that he should be kept perfectly quiet until the wound should 
heal. With this gentleman, who was one of the most active 

* There can be very little doubt that the Doctor mentioned by my dear father 
was the famous Doctor Arbuthnot. — R. E. W. 


430 


The History of 

and influential of our party, and the others before spoken of, the 
whole secret lay ; and it was kept with so much faithfulness, 
and the story we told so simple and natural, that there was no 
likelihood of a discovery except from the imprudence of the 
Prince himself, and an adventurous levity that we had the 
greatest difficulty to control. As for Lady Castlewood, although 
she scarce spoke aword,’twaseasyto gather from her demeanour, 
and one or two hints she dropped, how deep her mortification 
was at finding the hero whom she had chosen to worship all her 
life (and whose restoration had formed almost the most sacred 
part of her prayers), no more than a man, and not a good one. 
She thought misfortune might have chastened him ; but that 
instructress had rather rendered him callous than humble. His 
devotion, which was quite real, kept him from no sin he had 
a mind to. His talk showed good-humour, gaiety, even wit 
enough ; but there was a levity in his acts and words that he 
had brought from among those libertine devotees with whom 
he had been bred, and that shocked the simplicity and purity 
of the English lady, whose guest he was. Esmond spoke his 
mind to Beatrix pretty freely about the Prince, getting her 
brother to put in a word of warning. Beatrix was entirely of 
their opinion ; she thought he was very light, very light and 
reckless : she could not even see the good looks Colonel Esmond 
had spoken of. The Prince had bad teeth, and a decided squint. 
How could we say he did not squint ? His eyes were fine, but 
there was certainly a cast in them. She rallied him at table 
with wonderful wit ; she spoke of him invariably as of a mere 
boy ; she was more fond of Esmond than ever, praised him to 
her brother, praised him to the Prince, when his Royal Highness 
was pleased to sneer at the Colonel, and warmly espoused his 
cause : ‘‘ And if your Majesty does not give him the Garter his 
father had, when the Marquis of Esmond comes to your Majesty’s 
Court, I will hang myself in my own garters, or will cry my 
eyes out.” ‘‘ Rather than lose those,” says the Prince, “he shall 
be made Archbishop and Colonel of the Guard ” (it was Frank 
Castlewood who told me of this conversation over their supper). 

“ Yes,” cries she, with one of her laughs — I fancy I hear it now. 
Thirty years afterwards I hear that delightful music. “Yes, he 
shall be Archbishop of Esmond and Marquis of Canterbury.” 


Henry Esmond 43 1 

“ And what will your Ladyship be ? ” says the Prince ; ‘‘ you 
have but to choose your place.” 

“ I,” says Beatrix, ‘‘ will be mother of the maids to the 
Queen of His Majesty King James the Third — Vive le Roy ! ” 
and she made him a great curtsey, and drank a part of a glass 
of wine in his honour. 

“ The Prince seized hold of the glass and drank the last 
drop of it,” Castlewood said, “and my mother, looking very 
anxious, rose up and asked leave to retire. But that Trix is 
my mother’s daughter, Harry,” Frank continued, “I don’t 
know what a horrid fear I should have of her. I wish — I 
wish this business were over. You are older than I am, and 
wiser, and better, and I owe you everything, and would die 
for you — before George I would j but I wish the end of this 
were come.” 

Neither of us very likely passed a tranquil night ; horrible 
doubts and torments racked Esmond’s soul ; ’twas a scheme of 
personal ambition, a daring stroke for a selfish end — he knew 
it. What cared he, in his heart, who was king ? Were not 
his very sympathies and secret convictions on the other side 
— on the side of People, Parliament, Freedom ? And here 
was he, engaged for a Prince that had scarce heard the word 
liberty ; that priests and women, tyrants by nature, both made 
a tool of. The misanthrope was in no better humour after 
hearing that story, and his grim face more black and yellow 
than ever. 


Chapter X 

We entertain a very distinguished Guest at Kensington 

Should any clue be found to the dark intrigues at the latter 
end of Queen Anne’s time, or any historian be inclined to 
follow it, ’twill be discovered, I have little doubt, that not 
one of the great personages about the Queen had a defined 
scheme of policy, independent of that private and selfish 
interest which each was bent on pursuing : St John was for 
St John, and Harley for Oxford, and Marlborough for John 


432 The History of 

Churchill, always , and according as they could get help from 
St Germains or Hanover, they sent over projfFers of allegiance 
to the princes there, or betrayed one to the other : one cause, 
or one sovereign, was as good as another to them, so that 
they could hold the best place under him ; and, like Lockit 
and Peachum, the Newgate chiefs in the “Rogues’ Opera” 
Mr Gay wrote afterwards, had each in his hand documents 
and proofs of treason which would hang the other, only he 
did not dare to use the weapon, for fear of that one which 
his neighbour also carried in his pocket. Think of the great 
Marlborough, the greatest subject in all the world, a con- 
queror of princes, that had marched victorious over Germany, 
Flanders, and France, that had given the law to sovereigns 
abroad, and been worshipped as a divinity at home, forced 
to sneak out of England — his credit, honours, places, all taken 
from him ; his friends in the army broke and ruined ; and 
flying before Harley, as abject and powerless as a poor debtor 
before a bailiff with a writ. A paper, of which Harley got 
possession, and showing beyond doubt that the Duke was 
engaged with the Stuart family, was the weapon with which 
the Treasurer drove Marlborough out of the kingdom. He 
fled to Antwerp, and began intriguing instantly on the other 
side, and came back to England, as all know, a Whig and a 
Hanoverian. 

Though the Treasurer turned out of the army and office 
every man, military or civil, known to be the Duke’s friend, 
and gave the vacant posts among the Tory party ; he, too, 
was playing the double game between Hanover and St Ger- 
mains, awaiting the expected catastrophe of the Queen’s death 
to be Master of the State, and offer it to either family that 
should bribe him best, or that the nation should declare for. 
Whichever the King was, Harley’s object was to reign over 
him ; and to this end he supplanted the former famous 
favourite, decried the actions of the war which had made 
Marlborough’s name illustrious, and disdained no more than 
the great fallen competitor of his, the meanest arts, flatteries, 
intimidations, that would secure his power. If the greatest 
satirist the world ever hath seen had writ against Harley, and 
not for him, what a history had he left &hind of the last 


433 


Henry Esmond 

years of Queen Anne’s reign ! But Swift, that scorned all 
mankind, and himself not the least of all, had this merit of 
a faithful partisan, that he loved those chiefs who treated him 
well, and stuck by Harley bravely in his fall, as he gallantly 
had supported him in his better fortune. 

Incomparably more brilliant, more splendid, eloquent, accom- 
plished than his rival, the great St John could be as selfish as 
Oxford was, and could act the double part as skilfully as ambi- 
dextrous Churchill. He whose talk was always of liberty, no 
more shrank from using persecution and the pillory against his 
opponents than if he had been at Lisbon and Grand Inquisitor. 
This lofty patriot was on his knees at Hanover and St Ger- 
mains too;, notoriously of no religion, he toasted Church and 
Queen as boldly as the stupid Sacheverel, whom he used and 
laughed at ; and to serve his turn, and to overthrow his 
enemy, he could intrigue, coax, bully, wheedle, fawn on the 
Court favourite, and creep up the backstair as silently as 
Oxford, who supplanted Marlborough, and whom he himself 
supplanted. The crash of my Lord Oxford happened at this 
very time whereat my history is now arrived. He was come 
to the very last days of his power, and the agent whom he 
employed to overthrow the conqueror of Blenheim, was now 
engaged to upset the conqueror’s conqueror, and hand over 
the staff of government to Bolingbroke, who had been panting 
to hold it. 

In expectation of the stroke that was now preparing, the 
Irish regiments in the French service were all brought round 
about Boulogne in Picardy, to pass over if need were with 
the Duke of Berwick ; the soldiers of France no longer, but 
subjects of James the Third of England and Ireland King. 
The fidelity of the great mass of the Scots (though a most 
active, resolute, and gallant Whig party, admirably and 
energetically ordered and disciplined, was known to be in 
Scotland too) was notoriously unshaken in their King. A 
very great body of Tory clergy, nobility, and gentry, were 
public partisans of the exiled Prince ; and the indifferents 
might be counted on to cry King George or King James, 
according as either should prevail. The Queen, especially 
in her latter days, inclined towards her own family. The 

2 E 


434 


The History of 

Prince was lying actually in London, within a stone’s-cast of 
his sister’s palace ; the first Minister toppling to his fall, and 
so tottering that the weakest push of a woman’s finger would 
send him down ; and as for Bolingbroke, his successor, we 
know on whose side his power and his splendid eloquence 
would be on the day when the Queen should appear openly 
before her Council and say : — “ This, my Lords, is my brother ; 
here is my father’s heir, and mine after me.” 

During the whole of the previous year the Queen had had 
many and repeated fits of sickness, fever, and lethargy, and 
her death had been constantly looked for by all her attendants. 
The Elector of Hanover had wished to send his son, the Duke 
of Cambridge — to pay his court to his cousin the Queen, the 
Elector said ; — in truth, to be on the spot when death should 
close her career. Frightened perhaps to have such a memento 
mart under her royal eyes. Her Majesty had angrily forbidden 
the young Prince’s coming into England. Either she desired 
to keep the chances for her brother open yet ; or the people 
about her did not wish to close with the Whig candidate till 
they could make terms with him. The quarrels of her 
Ministers before her face at the Council board, the pricks of 
conscience very likely, the importunities of her Ministers, and 
constant turmoil and agitation round about her, had weakened 
and irritated the Princess extremely ; her strength was giving 
way under these continual trials of her temper, and from day 
to day it was expected she must come to a speedy end of 
them. Just before Viscount Castlewood and his companion 
came from France, Her Majesty was taken ill. The St 
Anthony’s fire broke out on the Royal legs; there was no 
hurry for the presentation of the young lord at Court, or that 
person who should appear under his name ; and my Lord 
Viscount’s wound breaking out opportunely, he was kept 
conveniently in his chamber until such time as his physician 
would allow him to bend his knee before the Queen. At the 
commencement of July that influential lady, with whom it has 
been mentioned that our party had relations, came frequently 
to visit her young friend, the Maid of Honour, at Kensington, 
and my Lord Viscount (the real or supposititious), who was an 
invalid at Lady’s Castlewood’s house. 


435 


Henry Esmond 

On the 27th day of July, the lady in question, who held 
the most intimate post about the Queen, came in her chair 
from the Palace hard by, bringing to the little party in 
Kensington Square intelligence of the very highest import- 
ance. The final blow had been struck, and my Lord of 
Oxford and Mortimer was no longer Treasurer. The staff 
was as yet given to no successor, though my Lord Boling- 
broke would undoubtedly be the man. And now the time 
was come, the Queen’s Abigail said : and now my Lord 
Castlewood ought to be presented to the Sovereign. 

After that scene which Lord Castlewood witnessed and 
described to his cousin, who passed such a miserable night of 
mortification and jealousy as he thought over the transaction, 
no doubt the three persons who were set by nature as pro- 
tectors over Beatrix came to the same conclusion, that she 
must be removed from the presence of a man whose desires 
towards her were expressed only too clearly : and who was 
no more scrupulous in seeking to gratify them than his father 
had been before him. I suppose Esmond’s mistress, her son, 
and the Colonel himself, had been all secretly debating this 
matter in their minds, for when Frank broke out, in his blunt 
way, with : “I think Beatrix had best be anywhere but here,” 
— Lady Castlewood said : “ I thank you, Frank, I have thought 
so too ; ” and Mr Esmond, though he only remarked that it 
was not for him to speak, showed plainly, by the delight on 
his countenance, how very agreeable that proposal was to him. 

“ One sees that you think with us, Henry,” says the Vis- 
countess, with ever so little of sarcasm in her tone : “ Beatrix 
is best out of this house whilst we have our guest in it, and 
as soon as this morning’s business is done, she ought to quit 
London.” 

‘‘What morning’s business.?” asked Colonel Esmond, not 
knowing what had been arranged, though in fact the stroke 
next in importance to that of bringing the Prince and of having 
him acknowledged by the Queen, was now being performed at 
the very moment we three were conversing together. 

The Court lady with whom our plan was concerted, and who 
was a chief agent in it, the Court physician, and the Bishop of 
Rochester, who were the other two most active participators in 


436 The History of 

our plan, had held many councils, in our house at Kensington 
and elsewhere, as to the means best to be adopted for present- 
ing our young adventurer to his sister the Queen. The simple 
and easy plan proposed by Colonel Esmond had been agreed to 
by all parties, which was that on some rather private day, when 
there were not many persons about the Court, the Prince should 
appear there as my Lord Castlewood, should be greeted by his 
sister-in-waiting, and led by that other lady into the closet of 
the Queen. And according to Her Majesty’s health or humour, 
and the circumstances that might arise during the interview, it 
was to be left to the discretion of those present at it, and to 
the Prince himself, whether he should declare that it was the 
Queen’s own brother, or the brother of Beatrix Esmond, who 
kissed her royal hand. And this plan being determined on, we 
were all waiting in very much anxiety for the day and signal of 
execution. 

Two mornings after that supper, it being the 27th day of 
July, the Bishop of Rochester breakfasting with Lady Castle- 
wood and her family, and the meal scarce over. Doctor A.’s 
coach drove up to our house at Kensington, and the Doctor 
appeared amongst the party there, enlivening a rather gloomy 
company ; for the mother and daughter had had words in the 
morning in respect to the transactions of that supper, and other 
adventures perhaps, and on the day succeeding. Beatrix’s 
haughty spirit brooked remonstrances from no superior, much 
less from her mother, the gentlest of creatures, whom the girl 
commanded rather than obeyed. And feeling she was wrong, 
and that by a thousand coquetries (which she could no more 
help exercising on every man that came near her, than the sun 
can help shining on great and small) she had provoked the 
Prince’s dangerous admiration, and allured him to the expression 
of it, she was only the more wilful and imperious the more she 
felt her error. 

To this party, the Prince being served with chocolate in his 
bedchamber, where he lay late sleeping away the fumes of his 
wine, the Doctor came, and by the urgent and startling nature 
of his news, dissipated instantly that private and minor un- 
pleasantry under which the family of Castlewood was labouring. 

He asked for the guest ; the guest was above in his own 


437 


Henry Esmond 


apartment ; he bade Monsieur Baptiste go up to his master in- 
stantly, and requested that my Lord Viscount Castlewood would 
straightway put his uniform on, and come away in the Doctor’s 
coach now at the door. 

He then informed Madam Beatrix what her part of the comedy 
was to be: — ‘‘In half-an-hour,” says he, “Her Majesty and 
her favourite lady will take the air in the Cedar Walk behind 
the new Banqueting House. Her Majesty will be drawn in a 
garden chair. Madam Beatrix Esmond and her brother , my Lord 
Viscount Castlewood, will be walking in the private garden (here 
is Lady Masham’s key), and will come unawares upon the 
Royal party. The man that draws the chair will retire, and 
leave the Queen, the favourite, and the Maid of Honour and 
her brother together ; Mistress Beatrix will present her brother, 
and then ! — and then, my Lord Bishop will pray for the result 
of the interview, and his Scots clerk will say Amen ! Quick, 
put on your hood, Madam Beatrix : why doth not His Majesty 
come down ? Such another chance may not present itself for 
months again.” 

The Prince was late and lazy, and indeed had all but lost 
that chance through his indolence. The Queen was actually 
about to leave the garden just when the party reached it ; 
the Doctor, the Bishop, the Maid of Honour, and her brother, 
went off together in the physician’s coach, and had been gone 
half-an-hour when Colonel Esmond came to Kensington Square. 

The news of this errand, on which Beatrix was gone, of course 
for a moment put all thoughts of private jealousy out of 
Colonel Esmond’s head. In half-an-hour more the coach 
returned ; the Bishop descended from it first, and gave his 
arm to Beatrix, who now came out. His Lordship went back 
into the carriage again, and the Maid of Honour entered the 
house alone. We were all gazing at her from the upper 
window, trying to read from her countenance the result of 
the interview from which she had just come. 

She came into the drawing-room in a great tremor and very 
pale ; she asked for a glass of water as her mother went to 
meet her, and after drinking that and putting off her hood, 
she began to speak : — “ We may all hope for the best,” says 
she ; “ it has cost the Queen a fit. Her Majesty was in her 


438 The History of 

chair in the Cedar Walk, accompanied only by Lady , 

when we entered by the private wicket from the west side of 
the garden, and turned towards her, the Doctor following us. 
They waited in a side walk hidden by the shrubs, as we ad- 
vanced towards the chair. My heart throbbed so I scarce 
could speak ; but my Prince whispered, ‘ Courage, Beatrix,’ 
and marched on with a steady step. His face was a little 
flushed, but he was not afraid of the danger. He who fought 
so bravely at Malplaquet fears nothing.” Esmond and Castle- 
wood looked at each other at this compliment, neither liking 
the sound of it. 

‘‘ The Prince uncovered,” Beatrix continued, “ and I saw 
the Queen turning round to Lady Masham, as if asking who 
these two were. Her Majesty looked very pale and ill, and 
then flushed up ; the favourite made us a signal to advance, 
and I went up, leading my Prince by the hand, quite close to 
the chair : ‘ Your Majesty will give my Lord Viscount your 
hand to kiss,’ says her lady, and the Queen put out her hand, 
which the Prince kissed, kneeling on his knee, he who should 
kneel to no mortal man or woman. 

“ ‘ You have been long from England, my Lord,’ says the 
Queen : ‘ why were you not here to give a home to your 
mother and sister ? ’ 

“‘I am come. Madam, to stay now, if the Queen desires 
me,’ says the Prince, with another low bow. 

“ ‘ You have taken a foreign wife, my Lord, and a foreign 
religion ; was not that of England good enough for you ? ’ 

“ ‘ In returning to my father’s Church,’ says the Prince, ‘ I 
do not love my mother the less, nor am I the less faithful 
servant of your Majesty.’ 

‘‘ Here,” says Beatrix, ‘‘ the favourite gave me a little signal 
with her hand to fall back, which I did, though I died to hear 
what should pass ; and whispered something to the Queen, 
which made Her Majesty start and utter one or two words in 
a hurried manner, looking towards the Prince, and catching 
hold with her hand of the arm of her chair. He advanced still 
nearer towards it ; he began to speak very rapidly ; I caught 
the words, ‘ Father, blessing, forgiveness,’ and then presently 
the Prince fell on his knees ; took from his breast a paper 


439 


Henry Esmond 

he had there, handed it to the Queen, who, as soon as she 
saw it. Hung up both her arms with a scream, and took away 
that hand nearest the Prince, and which he endeavoured to 
kiss. He went on speaking with great animation of gesture, 
now clasping his hands together on his heart, now opening 
them as though to say : H am here, your brother, in your 
power.’ Lady Masham ran round on the other side of the 
chair, kneeling too, and speaking with great energy. She 
clasped the Queen’s hand on her side, and picked up the 
paper her Majesty had let fall. The Prince rose and made a 
further speech as though he would go ; the favourite on the 
other hand urging her mistress, and then, running back to 
the Prince, brought him back once more close to the chair. 
Again he knelt down and took the Queen’s hand, which she 
did not withdraw, kissing it a hundred times ; my Lady all the 
time, with sobs and supplications, speaking over the chair. 
This while the Queen sat with a stupefied look, crumpling 
the paper with one hand, as my Prince embraced the other ; 
then of a sudden she uttered several piercing shrieks, and 
burst into a great fit of hysteric tears and laughter. ‘ Enough, 
enough, sir, for this time,’ I heard Lady Masham say : and the 
chairman, who had withdrawn round the Banqueting-room, 
came back, alarmed by the cries. ‘ Quick,’ says Lady Masham, 
‘ get some help,’ and I ran towards the Doctor, who, with 
the Bishop of Rochester, came up instantly. Lady Masham 
whispered the Prince he might hope for the very best and to 
be ready to-morrow ; and he hath gone away to the Bishop of 
Rochester’s house to meet several of his friends there. And so 
the great stroke is struck,” says Beatrix, going down on her 
knees, and clasping her hands. “ God save the King ! God 
save the King ! ” 

Beatrix’s tale told, and the young lady herself calmed some- 
what of her agitation, we asked with regard to the Prince, 
who was absent with Bishop Atterbury, and were informed 
that ’twas likely he might remain abroad the whole day. 
Beatrix’s three kinsfolk looked at one another at this intelli- 
gence : ’twas clear the same thought was passing through the 
minds of all. 

But who should begin to break the news ? Monsieur Baptiste, 


440 The History of 

that is, Frank Castlewood, turned very red, and looked to- 
wards Esmond ; the Colonel bit his lips, and fairly beat a 
retreat into the window : it was Lady Castlewood that opened 
upon Beatrix with the news which we knew would do any- 
thing but please her. 

“ We are glad,” says she, taking her daughter’s hand, and 
speaking in a gentle voice, ‘‘ that the guest is away.” 

Beatrix drew back in an instant, looking round her at us 
three, and as if divining a danger. “ Why glad ? ” says she, 
her breast beginning to heave ; “are you so soon tired of 
him ? ” 

“We think one of us is devilishly too fond of him,” cries 
out Frank Castlewood. 

“ And which is it — you, my Lord, or is it mamma, who is 
jealous because he drinks my health ? or is it the head of the 
family” (here she turned with an imperious look towards Colonel 
Esmond), “ who has taken of late to preach the King sermons 

“We do not say you are too free with His Majesty.” 

“ I thank you, madam,” says Beatrix, with a toss of the head 
and a curtsey. 

But her mother continued, with very great calmness and 
dignity: “At least we have not said so, though we might, 
were it possible for a mother to say such words to her own 
daughter, your father’s daughter.” 

mon pere^"* breaks out Beatrix, “was no better than 
other persons’ fathers.” And again she looked towards the 
Colonel. 

We all felt a shock as she uttered those two or three 
French words ; her manner was exactly imitated from that 
of our foreign guest. 

“You had not learned to speak French a month ago, Beatrix,” 
says her mother sadly, “ nor to speak ill of your father.” 

Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her flurry, 
for she blushed crimson : “I have learnt to honour the King,” 
says she, drawing up, “ and ’twere as well that others suspected 
neither His Majesty nor me.” 

“ If you respected your mother a little more,” Frank said, 
“Trix, you would do yourself no hurt.” 

“I am no child,” says she, turning round on him j “ we 


Henry Esmond 441 

have lived very well these five years without the benefit of your 
advice or example, and I intend to take neither now. Why does 
not the head of the house speak ? ” she went on ; “ he rules 
everything here. When his chaplain has done singing the 
psalms, will his Lordship deliver the sermon ? I am tired of the 
psalms.” The Prince had used almost the very same words in 
regard to Colonel Esmond that the imprudent girl repeated in 
her wrath. 

“ You show yourself a very apt scholar, madam,” says the 
Colonel; and, turning to his mistress, “Did your guest use 
these words in your Ladyship^s hearing, or was it to Beatrix 
in private that he was pleased to impart his opinion regarding 
my tiresome sermon ? ” 

“ Have you seen him alone.?” cries my Lord, starting up with 
an oath : “ by God, have you seen him alone ? ” 

“ Were he here, you wouldn’t dare so to insult me ; no, you 
would not dare :” cries Frank’s sister. “ Keep your oaths, my 
Lord, for your wife ; we are not used here to such language. 
Till you came, there used to be kindness between me and 
mamma, and I cared for her when you never did, when you 
were away for years with your horses and your mistress, and 
your Popish wife.” 

“By ,” says my Lord, rapping out another oath, “ Clotilda 

is an angel; how dare you say a word against Clotilda ?” 

Colonel Esmond could not refrain from a smile, to see how 
easy Frank’s attack was drawn olF by that feint. “I fancy 
Clotilda is not the subject in hand,” says Mr Esmond, rather 
scornfully ; “ her Ladyship is at Paris, a hundred leagues off, 
preparing baby-linen. It is about my Lord Castlewood’s sister, 
and not his wife, the question is.” 

“He is not my Lord Castlewood,” says Beatrix, “and he 
knows he is not ; he is Colonel Francis Esmond’s son, and no 
more, and he wears a false title ; and he lives on another man’s 
land, and he knows it.” Here was another desperate sally of 
the poor beleaguered garrison, and an a/erte in another quarter. 

“ Again, I beg your pardon,” says Esmond. “If there are 
no proofs of my claim, I have no claim. If my father acknow- 
ledged no heir, yours was his lawful successor, and my Lord 
Castlewood hath as good a right to his rank and small estate 


442 The History of 

as any man in England. But that again is not the question, 
as you know very well ; let us bring our talk back to it, as 
you will have me meddle in it. And I will give you frankly 
my opinion, that a house where a Prince lies all day, who 
respects no woman, is no house for a young unmarried lady ; 
that you were better in the country than here : that he is here 
on a great end, from which no folly should divert him ; and 
that having nobly done your part of this morning, Beatrix, you 
should retire off the scene awhile, and leave it to the other 
actors of the play.” 

As the Colonel spoke with a perfect calmness and politeness, 
such as ’tis to be hoped he hath always shown to women,* his 
mistress stood by him on one side of the table, and Frank 
Castlewood on the other, hemming in poor Beatrix, that was 
behind it, and, as it were, surrounding her with our approaches. 

Having twice sallied out and been beaten back, she now, 
as I expected, tried the ultima ratio of women, and had recourse 
to tears. Her beautiful eyes filled with them ; I never could 
bear in her, nor in any woman, that expression of pain : — ‘‘ I 
am alone,” sobbed she ; “ you are three against me — my 
brother, my mother, and you. What have I done, that you 
should speak and look so unkindly at me 1 Is it my fault 
that the Prince should, as you say, admire me ? Did I bring 
him here Did I do aught but what you bade me, in making 
him welcome ? Did you not tell me that our duty was to die 
for him ? Did you not teach me, mother, night and morning, 
to pray for the King, before even ourselves ? What would 
you have of me. Cousin, for you are the chief of the conspiracy 
against me ; I know you are, sir, and that my mother and 

* My dear father saith quite truly, that his manner towards our sex was uni- 
formly courteous. From my infancy upwards, he treated me with an extreme 
gentleness, as though I was a little lady. I can scarce remember (though I tried 
him often) ever hearing a rough word from him, nor was he less grave and kind 
in his manner to the humblest negresses on his estate. He was familiar with no 
one except my mother, and it was delightful to witness up to the very last days 
the confidence between them. He was obeyed eagerly by all under him ; and my 
mother and all her household lived in a constant emulation to please him, and 
quite a terror lest in any way they should offend him. He was the humblest 
man, with all this ; the least exacting, the most easily contented ; and Mr Benson, 
our minister at Castlewood, who attended him at the last, ever said : “ I know 
not what Colonel Esmond’s doctrine was, but his life and death were those of a 
devout Christian.” — R. E. W. 


Henry Esmond 443 

brother are acting but as you bid them : whither would you 
have me go ? ” 

“ I would but remove from the Prince,” says Esmond gravely, 
“ a dangerous temptation. Heaven forbid I should say you 
would yield : I would only have him free of it. Your honour 
needs no guardian, please God, but his imprudence doth. He 
is so far removed from all women by his rank, that his pursuit 
of them cannot but be unlawful. AYe would remove the 
dearest and fairest of our family from the chance of that 
insult, and that is why we would have you go, dear Beatrix.” 

“ Harry speaks like a book,” says Frank, with one of his 

oaths, and, by , every word he saith is true. You 

can’t help being handsome, Trix ; no more can the Prince 
help following you. My counsel is that you go out of harm’s 
way ; for, by the Lord, were the Prince to play any tricks 
with you. King as he is, or is to be, Harry Esmond and I 
would have justice of him.” 

‘‘ Are not two such champions enough to guard me ? ” says 
Beatrix, something sorrowfully ; “ sure with you two watching 
no evil could happen to me.” 

‘‘ In faith, I think not, Beatrix,” says Colonel Esmond ; ‘‘ nor 
if the Prince knew us would he try.” 

“ But does he know you ? ” interposed Lady Castlewood, 
very quiet : “ he comes of a country where the pursuit of 
kings is thought no dishonour to a woman. Let us go, 
dearest Beatrix ! Shall we go to Walcote or to Castlewood ? 
We are best away from the city ; and when the Prince is 
acknowledged, and our champions have restored him, and 
he hath his own house at St James’s or Windsor, we can 
come back to ours here. Do you not think so, Harry and 
Frank ? ” 

Frank and Harry thought with her, you may be sure. 

‘‘We will go then,” says Beatrix, turning a little pale: 
“ Lady Masham is to give me warning to-night how Her 
Majesty is, and to-morrow ” 

“ I think we had best go to-day, my dear,” says my Lady 
Castlewood; “we might have the coach and sleep at Houns- 
low, and reach home to-morrow. ’Tis twelve o’clock; bid 
the coach. Cousin, be ready at one.” 


444 


The History of 

‘‘ For shame ! ” burst out Beatrix, in a passion of tears and 
mortification. “You disgrace me by your cruel precautions; 
my own mother is the first to suspect me, and would take me 
away as my gaoler. I will not go with you, mother; I will 
go as no one’s prisoner. If I wanted to deceive, do you think 
I could find no means of evading you ? My family suspects 
me. As those mistrust me that ought to love me most, let 
me leave them ; I will go, but I will go alone : to Castlewood 
be it. I have been unhappy there and lonely enough ; let me 
go back, but spare me at least the humiliation of setting a 
watch over my misery, which is a trial I can’t bear. Let me 
go when you will, but alone, or not at all. You three can 
stay and triumph over my unhappiness, and I will bear it as I 
have borne it before. Let my gaoler-in-chief go order the 
coach that is to take me away. I thank you, Henry Esmond, 
for your share in the conspiracy. All my life long I’ll thank 
you, and remember you, and you, brother, and you, mother, 
how shall I show my gratitude to you for your careful defence 
of my honour ? ” 

She swept out of the room with the air of an empress, 
flinging glances of defiance at us all, and leaving us conquerors 
of the field, but scared, and almost ashamed of our victory. It 
did indeed seem hard and cruel that we three should have con- 
spired the banishment and humiliation of that fair creature. 
We looked at each other in silence ; ’twas not the first stroke 
by many of our actions in that unlucky time, which, being 
done, we wished undone. We agreed it was best she should 
go alone, speaking stealthily to one another, and under our 
breaths, like persons engaged in an act they felt ashamed in 
doing. 

In a half-hour, it might be, after our talk she came back, 
her countenance wearing the same defiant air which it had 
borne when she left us. She held a shagreen case in her 
hand ; Esmond knew it as containing his diamonds which he 
had given to her for her marriage with Duke Hamilton, and 
which she had worn so splendidly on the inauspicious night of 
the Prince’s arrival. “I have brought back,” says she, “to 
the Marquis of Esmond the present he deigned to make me 
in days when he trusted me better than now. I will never 


Henry Esmond 


445 


accept a benefit or a kindness from Henry Esmond more, and 
I give back these family diamonds, which belonged to one 
King’s mistress, to the gentleman that suspected I would be 
another. Have you been upon your message of coach-caller, 
my Lord Marquis ? Will you send your valet to see that 
I do not run away?” We were right, yet, by her manner, 
she had put us all in the wrong *, we were conquerors, yet 
the honours of the day seemed to be with the poor oppressed 
girl. 

The luckless box containing the stones had first been orna- 
mented with a Baron’s coronet, when Beatrix was engaged to 
the young gentleman from whom she parted, and afterwards 
the gilt crown of a duchess figured on the cover, which also 
poor Beatrix was destined never to wear. Lady Castlewood 
opened the case mechanically and scarce thinking what she 
did ; and, behold, besides the diamonds, Esmond’s present, 
there lay in the box the enamelled miniature of the late 
Duke, which Beatrix had laid aside with her mourning when 
the King came into the house ; and which the poor heedless 
thing very likely had forgotten. 

‘‘ Do you leave this, too, Beatrix ? ” says her mother, taking 
the miniature out, and with a cruelty she did not very often 
show ; but there are some moments when the tenderest women 
are cruel, and some triumphs which angels can’t forego.* 

Having delivered this stab, Lady Castlewood was frightened 
at the effect of her blow. It went to poor Beatrix’s heart : 
she flushed up and passed a handkerchief across her eyes, and 
kissed the miniature, and put it into her bosom: — “I had 
forgot it,” says she ; “my injury made me forget my grief ; 
my mother has recalled both to me. Farewell, mother; I 
think I never can forgive you ; something hath broke between 
us that no tears nor years can repair. I always said I was 
alone : you never loved me, never — and were jealous of me 
from the time I sat on my father’s knee. Let me go away, 
the sooner the better : I can bear to be with you no more.” 

* This remark shows how unjustly and contemptuously even the best of men 
will sometimes judge of our sex. Lady Castlewood had no intention of triumph- 
ing over her daughter ; but from a sense of duty alone pointed out her deplorable 
wrong. — R. E. 


446 The History of 

‘‘Go, child,” says her mother, still very stern; “go and 
bend your proud knees and ask forgiveness; go, pray in 
solitude for humility and repentance. ’Tis not your re- 
proaches that make me unhappy, ’tis your hard heart, my 
poor Beatrix : may God soften it, and teach you one day to 
feel for your mother.” 

If my mistress was cruel, at least she never could be got to 
own as much. Her haughtiness quite overtopped Beatrix’s ; 
and, if the girl had a proud spirit, I very much fear it came to 
her by inheritance. 


Chapter XI 

Our Guest quits us as not being Hospitable enough 

Beatrix’s departure took place within an hour, her maid 
going with her in the post-chaise, and a man armed on the 
coach-box to prevent any danger of the road. Esmond and 
Frank thought of escorting the carriage, but she indignantly 
refused their company, and another man was sent to follow 
the coach, and not to leave it till it had passed over Hounslow 
Heath on the next day. And these two forming the whole 
of Lady Castlewood’s male domestics, Mr Esmond’s faithful 
John Lockwood came to wait on his mistress during their 
absence, though he would have preferred to escort Mrs Lucy, 
his sweetheart, on her journey into the country. 

We had a gloomy and silent meal ; it seemed as if a darkness 
was over the house, since the bright face of Beatrix had been 
withdrawn from it. In the afternoon came a message from 
the favourite to relieve us somewhat from this despondency. 
“ The Queen hath been much shaken,” the note said ; “ she 
is better now, and all things will go well. Let my Lord 
Castlewood be ready against we send for him.” 

At night there came a second billet : “ There hath been a 
great battle in Council; Lord Treasurer hath broke his staff, 
and hath fallen never to rise again ; no successor is appointed. 

Lord B receives a great Whig company to-night at Golden 

Square. If he is trimming, others are true ; the Queen hath 


Henry Esmond 447 

no more fits, but is a-bed now, and more quiet. Be ready 
against morning, when I still hope all will be well.” 

The Prince came home shortly after the messenger who 
bore this billet had left the house. His Royal Highness was 
so much the better for the Bishop’s liquor, that to talk affairs 
to him now was of little service. He was helped to the 
Royal bed ; he called Castlewood familiarly by his own 
name ; he quite forgot the part upon the acting of which 
his crown, his safety, depended. ’Twas lucky that my Lady 
Castlewood’s servants were out of the way, and only those 
heard him who would not betray him. He inquired after 
the adorable Beatrix, with a royal hiccup in his voice ; he 
was easily got to bed, and in a minute or two plunged 
in that deep slumber and forgetfulness with which Bacchus 
rewards the votaries of that god. We wished Beatrix had 
been there to see him in his cups. We regretted, perhaps, 
that she was gone. 

One of the party at Kensington Square was fool enough to 
ride to Hounslow that night, cormn latronihus, and to the inn 
which the family used ordinarily in their journeys out of 
London. Esmond desired my landlord not to acquaint Madam 
Beatrix with his coming, and had the grim satisfaction of 
passing by the door of the chamber where she lay with her 
maid, and of watching her chariot set forth in the early 
morning. He saw her smile and slip money into the man’s 
hand who was ordered to ride behind the coach as far as 
Bagshot. The road being open, and the other servant armed, 
it appeared she dispensed with the escort of a second domestic; 
and this fellow, bidding his young mistress adieu with many 
bows, went and took a pot of ale in the kitchen, and returned 
in company with his brother servant, John Coachman, and his 
horses, back to London. 

They were not a mile out of Hounslow when the two 
worthies stopped for more drink, and here they were scared 
by seeing Colonel Esmond gallop by them. The man said 
in reply to Colonel Esmond’s stern question, that his young 
mistress had sent her duty ; only that, no other message : she 
had had a very good night, and would reach Castlewood by 
nightfall. The Colonel had no time for further colloquy. 


448 The History of 

and galloped on swiftly to London, having business of great 
importance there, as my reader very well knoweth. The 
thought of Beatrix riding away from the danger soothed his 
mind not a little. His horse was at Kensington Square (honest 
Dapple knew the way thither well enough) before the tipsy 
guest of last night was awake and sober. 

The account of the previous evening was known all over 
the town early next day. A violent altercation had taken place 
before the Queen in the Council Chamber ; and all the coffee- 
houses had their version of the quarrel. The news brought 
my Lord Bishop early to Kensington Square, where he awaited 
the waking of his Royal master above stairs, and spoke con- 
fidently of having him proclaimed as Prince of Wales and 
heir to the throne before that day was over. The Bishop 
had entertained on the previous afternoon certain of the 
most influential gentlemen of the true British party. His 
Royal Highness had charmed all, both Scots and English, 
Papists and Churchmen : “ Even Quakers,” says he, “ were 
at our meeting ; and, if the stranger took a little too much 
British punch and ale, he will soon grow more accustomed 
to those liquors ; and my Lord Castle wood,” says the bishop 
with a laugh, “ must bear the cruel charge of having been 
for once in his life a little tipsy. He toasted your lovely 
sister a dozen times, at which we all laughed,” says the 
Bishop, ‘‘ admiring so much fraternal affection. — Where is 
that charming nymph, and why doth she not adorn your 
Ladyship’s tea-table with her bright eyes ? ” 

Her Ladyship said, drily, that Beatrix was not at home that 
morning ; my Lord Bishop was too busy with great affairs to 
trouble himself much about the presence or absence of any 
lady, however beautiful. 

We were yet at table when Dr A came from the Palace 

with a look of great alarm ; the shocks the Queen had had 
the day before had acted on her severely ; he had been sent 
for, and had ordered her to be blooded. The surgeon of 
Long Acre had come to cup the Queen, and Her Majesty 
was now more easy and breathed more freely. What made 
us start at the name of Mr Ayme ? “ II faut etre aimable 

pour etre aime,” says the merry Doctor; Esmond pulled his 


Henry Esmond 449 

sleeve, and bade him hush. It was to Ayme’s house, after 
his fatal duel, that my dear Lord Castle wood, Frank’s father, 
had been carried to die. 

No second visit could be paid to the Queen on that day 
at any rate ; and when our guest above gave his signal that 
he was awake, the Doctor, the Bishop, and Colonel Esmond 
waited upon the Prince’s levee, and brought him their news, 
cheerful or dubious. The Doctor had to go away presently, 
but promised to keep the Prince constantly acquainted with 
what was taking place at the Palace hard by. His counsel 
was, and the Bishop’s, that as soon as ever the Queen’s 
malady took a favourable turn, the Prince should be intro- 
duced to her bedside ; the Council summoned ; the guard 
at Kensington and St James’s, of which two regiments were 
to be entirely relied on, and one known not to be hostile, 
would declare for the Prince, as the Queen would before the 
Lords of her Council, designating him as the heir to her throne. 

With locked doors, and Colonel Esmond acting as secretary, 
the Prince and his Lordship of Rochester passed many hours 
of this day, composing Proclamations and Addresses to the 
I Country, to the Scots, to the Clergy, to the People of London 
I and England ; announcing the arrival of the exile descendant 
I of three Sovereigns, and his acknowledgment by his sister 
as heir to the throne. Every safeguard for their liberties, the 
Church and People could ask, was promised to them. The 
Bishop could answer for the adhesion of very many prelates, 
who besought of their flocks and brother ecclesiastics to recog- 
nise the sacred right of the future Sovereign and to purge the 
country of the sin of rebellion. 

During the composition of these papers, more messengers 
than one came from the Palace regarding the state of the 
august patient there lying. At mid-day she was somewhat 
better ; at evening the torpor again seized her and she 

wandered in her mind. At night Dr A was with us 

again, with a report rather more favourable ; no instant danger 
at any rate was apprehended. In the course of the last two 
years Her Majesty had had many attacks similar, but more 
severe. 

By this time we had finished a half-dozen of Proclamations 
2 F 


450 


The History of 

(the wording of them so as to offend no parties, and not to 
give umbrage to Whigs or Dissenters, required very great 
caution), and the young Prince, who had indeed shown, 
during a long day’s labour, both alacrity at seizing the in- 
formation given him, and ingenuity and skill in turning the 
phrases which were to go out signed by his name, here ex- 
hibited a good-humour and thoughtfulness that ought to be set 
down to his credit. 

‘‘ Were these papers to be mislaid,” says he, ‘‘ or our scheme 
to come to mishap, my Lord Esmond’s writing would bring 
him to a place where I heartily hope never to see him ; and 
so, by your leave, I will copy the papers myself, though I am 
not very strong in spelling ; and if they are found they will 
implicate none but the person they most concern ; ” and so, 
having carefully copied the Proclamations out, the Prince 
burned those in Colonel Esmond’s handwriting : “ And now, 
and now, gentlemen,” says he, “ let us go to supper, and 
drink a glass with the ladies. My Lord Esmond, you will 
sup with us to-night; you have given us of late too little 
of your company.” 

The Prince’s meals were commonly served in the chamber 
which had been Beatrix’s bedroom, adjoining that in which he 
slept. And the dutiful practice of his entertainers was to wait 
until their Royal guest bade them take their places at table 
before they sat down to partake of the meal. On this night, 
as you may suppose, only Frank Castlewood and his mother 
were in waiting when the supper was announced to receive 
the Prince ; who had passed the whole of the day in his own 
apartment, with the Bishop as his Minister of State, and 
Colonel Esmond officiating as Secretary of his Council. 

The Prince’s countenance wore an expression by no means 
pleasant, when looking towards the little company assembled, 
and waiting for him, he did not see Beatrix’s bright face there 
as usual to greet him. He asked Lady Esmond for his fair 
introducer of yesterday : her Ladyship only cast her eyes 
down, and said quietly, Beatrix could not be of the supper 
that night ; nor did she show the least sign of confusion, 
whereas Castlewood turned red, and Esmond was no less 
embarrassed. I think women have an instinct of dissimula- 


451 


Henry Esmond 

tion ; they know by nature how to disguise their emotions far 
better than the most consummate male courtiers can do. Is 
not the better part of the life of many of them spent in hiding 
their feelings, in cajoling their tyrants, in masking over with 
fond smiles and artful gaiety their doubt, or their grief, or 
their terror ? 

Our guest swallowed his supper very sulkily ; it was not 
till the second bottle his Highness began to rally. When 
Lady Castlewood asked leave to depart, he sent a message 
to Beatrix, hoping she would be present at the next day’s 
dinner, and applied himself to drink, and to talk afterwards, 
for which there was subject in plenty. 

The next day, we heard from our informer at Kensington 
that the Queen was somewhat better, and had been up for 
an hour, though she was not well enough yet to receive any 
visitor. 

At dinner a single cover was laid for his Royal Highness ; 
and the two gentlemen alone waited on him. We had had a 
consultation in the morning with Lady Castlewood, in which 
it had been determined that, should his Highness ask further 
questions about Beatrix, he should be answered by the gentle- 
men of the house. 

He was evidently disturbed and uneasy, looking towards 
the door constantly, as if expecting some one. There came, 
however, nobody, except honest John Lockwood, when he 
knocked, with a dish, which those within took from him ; so 
the meals were always arranged, and I believe the council in 
the kitchen were of opinion that my young lord had brought 
over a priest, who had converted us all into Papists, and that 
Papists were like Jews, eating together, and not choosing to 
take their meals in the sight of Christians. 

The Prince tried to cover his displeasure : he was but a 
clumsy dissembler at that time, and when out of humour could 
with difficulty keep a serene countenance ; and having made 
some foolish attempts at trivial talk, he came to his point 
presently, and in as easy a manner as he could, saying 
to Lord Castlewood, he hoped, he requested, his Lord- 
ship’s mother and sister would be of the supper that night. 
As the time hung heavy on him, and he must not go 


452 The History of 

abroad, would not Miss Beatrix hold him company at a game 
of cards. 

At this, looking up at Esmond, and taking the signal from 
him. Lord Castlewood informed his Royal Highness * that his 
sister Beatrix was not at Kensington ; and that her family had 
thought it best she should quit the town. 

“ Not at Kensington ! ” says he. “ Is she ill ? she was well 
yesterday ; wherefore should she quit the town ? Is it at your 
orders, my Lord, or Colonel Esmond’s, who seems the master 
of this house ? ” 

‘‘ Not of this, sir,” says Frank very nobly, ** only of our 
house in the country, which he hath given to us. This is my 
mother’s house, and Walcote is my father’s, and the Marquis 
of Esmond knows he hath but to give his word, and I return 
his to him.” 

‘‘ The Marquis of Esmond ! — the Marquis of Esmond,” says 
the Prince, tossing off a glass, ** meddles too much with my 
affairs, and presumes on the service he hath done me. If 
you want to carry your suit with Beatrix, my Lord, by 
locking her up in gaol, let me tell you that is not the way 
to win a woman.” 

“ I was not aware, sir, that I had spoken of my suit to 
Madam Beatrix to your Royal Highness.” 

‘‘ Bah, bah. Monsieur ! we need not be a conjuror to see 
that. It makes itself seen at all moments. You are jealous, 
my Lord, and the Maid of Honour cannot look at another face 
without yours beginning to scowl. That which you do is un- 
worthy, Monsieur ; is inhospitable — is, is lache, yes, lache ” 
(he spoke rapidly in French, his rage carrying him away with 
each phrase) : ‘‘ I come to your house ; I risk my life ; I pass it in 
ennui ; I repose myself on your fidelity ; I have no company but 
your Lordship’s sermons or the conversations of that adorable 
young lady, and you take her from me, and you, you rest ! 
Merci, Monsieur ! I shall thank you when I have the means ; 
I shall know to recompense a devotion a little importunate, 
my Lord — a little importunate. For a month past your airs 
of protector have annoyed me beyond measure. You deign 

* In London we addressed the Prince as Royal Highness invariably ; though 
the women persisted in giving him the title of King. 


453 


Henry Esmond 

to offer me the crown, and bid me take it on my knees like 
John — eh ! I know my history, Monsieur, and mock 
myself of frowning barons. I admire your mistress, and you 
send her to a Bastile of the Province ; I enter your house, and 
you mistrust me. I will leave it. Monsieur ; from to-night 
I will leave it. I have other friends whose loyalty will not 
be so ready to question mine. If I have Garters to give away, 
’tis to noblemen who are not so ready to think evil. Bring 
me a coach and let me quit this place, or let the fair Beatrix 
return to it. I will not have your hospitality at the expense 
of the freedom of that fair creature.” 

This harangue was uttered with rapid gesticulation such as 
the French use, and in the language of that nation ; the Prince 
striding up and down the room ; his face flushed, and his 
hands trembling with anger. He was very thin and frail from 
repeated illness and a life of pleasure. Either Castlewood or 
Esmond could have broke him across their knee, and in half a 
minute’s struggle put an end to him ; and here he was insult- 
ing us both, and scarce deigning to hide from the two, whose 
honour it most concerned, the passion he felt for the young 
lady of our family. My Lord Castlewood replied to the 
Prince’s tirade very nobly and simply. 

‘‘Sir,” says he, “your Royal Highness is pleased to forget 
that others risk their lives, and for your cause. Very few 
Englishmen, please God, would dare to lay hands on your 
sacred person, though none would ever think of respecting 
ours. Our family’s lives are at your service, and everything 
we have, except our honour.” 

“ Honour ! bah, sir, who ever thought of hurting your 
honour ? ” says the Prince, with a peevish air. 

“We implore your Royal Highness never to think of hurt- 
ing it,” says Lord Castlewood, with a low bow. The night 
being warm, the windows were open both towards the 
Gardens and the Square. Colonel Esmond heard through 
the closed door the voice of the watchman calling the hour, 
in the Square on the other side. He opened the door com- 
municating with the Prince’s room ; Martin, the servant that 
had rode with Beatrix to Hounslow, was just going out of the 
chamber as Esmond entered it, and when the fellow was 


454 


The History of 

gone, and the watchman again sang his cry of “ Past ten 
o’clock, and a starlight night,” Esmond spoke to the Prince 
in a low voice, and said, ‘‘ Your Royal Highness hears that 
man ? ” 

‘‘ Apres, Monsieur ? ” says the Prince. 

“ I have but to beckon him from the window, and send him 
fifty yards, and he returns with a guard of men, and I deliver 
up to him the body of the person calling himself James the 
Third, for whose capture Parliament hath offered a reward of 
^500, as your Royal Highness saw on our ride from Roches- 
ter. I have but to say the word, and, by the Heaven that 
made me, I would say it if I thought the Prince, for his 
honour’s sake, would not desist from insulting ours. But 
the first gentleman of England knows his duty too well to 
forget himself with the humblest, or peril his crown for a 
deed that were shameful if it were done.” 

‘‘ Has your Lordship anything to say,” says the Prince, 
turning to Frank Castlewood, and quite pale with anger ; 
“ any threat or any insult, with which you would like to 
end this agreeable night’s entertainment ? ” 

“ I follow the head of our house,” says Castlewood, bowing 
gravely. “ At what time shall it please the Prince that we 
should wait upon him in the morning ? ” 

“ You will wait on the Bishop of Rochester early, you will 
bid him bring his coach hither ; and prepare an apartment for 
me in his own house, or in a place of safety. The King will 
reward you handsomely, never fear, for all you have done in 
his behalf. I wish you a good night, and shall go to bed, 
unless it pleases the Marquis of Esmond to call his colleague, 
the watchman, and that I should pass the night with the 
Kensington guard. Fare you well, be sure I will remem- 
ber you. My Lord Castlewood, I can go to bed to-night 
without need of a chamberlain.” And the Prince dismissed 
us with a grim bow, locking one door as he spoke, that into 
the supping-room, and the other through which we passed, 
after us. It led into the small chamber which Frank Castle- 
wood or Monsieur Baptiste occupied, and by which Martin 
entered when Colonel Esmond but now saw him in the chamber. 

At an early hour next morning the Bishop arrived, and was 


45S 


Henry Esmond 


closeted for some time with his master in his own apartment, 
where the Prince laid open to his counsellor the wrongs which, 
according to his version, he had received from the gentlemen 
of the Esmond family. The worthy prelate came out from the 
conference with an air of great satisfaction ; he was a man full 
of resources, and of a most assured fidelity, and possessed of 
genius, and a hundred good qualities ; but captious and of a 
most jealous temper, that could not help exulting at the down- 
fall of any favourite ; and he was pleased in spite of himself to 
hear that the Esmond Ministry was at an end. 

“ I have soothed your guest,” says he, coming out to the two 
gentlemen and the widow, who had been made acquainted with 
somewhat of the dispute of the night before. (By the version 
we gave her, the Prince was only made to exhibit anger because 
we doubted of his intentions in respect to Beatrix ; and to leave 
us, because we questioned his honour.) “ But I think, all things 
considered, ’tis as well he should leave this house ; and then, 
my Lady Castlewood,” says the Bishop, ‘‘my pretty Beatrix 
may come back to it.” 

“ She is quite as well at home at Castlewood,” Esmond’s 
mistress said, “ till everything is over.” 

“ You shall have your title, Esmond, that I promise you,” 
says the good Bishop, assuming the airs of a Prime Minister. 
“ The Prince hath expressed himself most nobly in regard of 
the little difference of last night, and I promise you he hath 
listened to my sermon, as well as to that of other folks,” says 
the Doctor archly ; “ he hath every great and generous quality, 
with perhaps a weakness for the sex which belongs to his family, 
and hath been known in scores of popular sovereigns from King 
David downwards.” 

“ My Lord, my Lord ! ” breaks out Lady Esmond, “ the levity 
with which you speak of such conduct towards our sex shocks 
me, and what you call weakness I call deplorable sin.” 

“ Sin it is, my dear creature,” says the Bishop, with a shrug, 
taking snuff ; “ but consider what a sinner King Solomon was, 
and in spite of a thousand of wives too.” 

“ Enough of this, my Lord,” says Lady Castlewood, with a 
fine blush, and walked out of the room very stately. 

The Prince entered it presently with a smile on his face. 


456 The History of 

and if he felt any offence against us on the previous night, at 
present exhibited none. He offered a hand to each gentleman 
with great courtesy. “ If all your bishops preach so well as 
Doctor Atterbury,” says he, “ I don’t know, gentlemen, what 
may happen to me. I spoke very hastily, my Lords, last night, 
and ask pardon of both of you. But I must not stay any longer,” 
says he, ‘‘ giving umbrage to good friends, or keeping pretty 
girls away from their homes. My Lord Bishop hath found a 
safe place for me, hard by at a curate’s house, whom the Bishop 
can trust, and whose wife is so ugly as to be beyond all danger ; 
we will decamp into those new quarters, and I leave you, thank- 
ing you for a hundred kindnesses here. Where is my hostess, 
that I may bid her farewell ? to welcome her in a house of my 
own, soon, I trust, where my friends shall have no cause to 
quarrel with me.” 

Lady Castlewood arrived presently, blushing with great grace, 
and tears filling her eyes as the Prince graciously saluted her. 
She looked so charming and young, that the Doctor, in his 
bantering way, could not help speaking of her beauty to the 
Prince ; whose compliment made her blush, and look more 
charming still. 


Chapter XII 

A Great Scheme, and who Balked it 

As characters written with a secret ink come out with the 
application of fire, and disappear again and leave the paper 
white, as soon as it is cool ; a hundred names of men, high in 
repute and favouring the Prince’s cause, that were writ in our 
private lists, would have been visible enough on the great roll 
of the conspiracy, had it ever been laid open under the sun. 
What crowds would have pressed forward, and subscribed 
their names and protested their loyalty, when the danger was 
over ! What a number of Whigs, now high in place and 
creatures of the all-powerful Minister, scorned Mr Walpole 
then ! If ever a match was gained by the manliness and deci- 
sion of a few at a moment of danger ; if ever one was lost by 


Henry Esmond 457 

the treachery and imbecility of those that had the cards in their 
hands and might have played them, it was in that momentous 
game which was enacted in the next three days, and of which 
the noblest crown in the world was the stake. 

From the conduct of my Lord Bolingbroke, those who were 
interested in the scheme they had in hand saw pretty well 
that he was not to be trusted. Should the Prince prevail, 
it was his Lordship’s gracious intention to declare for him : 
should the Hanoverian party bring in their Sovereign, who 
more ready to go on his knee, and cry “ God save King 
George ? ” And he betrayed the one Prince and the other ; 
but exactly at the wrong time. When he should have struck 
for King James, he faltered and coquetted with the Whigs ; 
and having committed himself by the most monstrous pro- 
fessions of devotion, which the Elector rightly scorned, he 
proved the justice of their contempt for him by flying and 
taking renegade service with St Germains, just when he 
should have kept aloof ; and that Court despised him, as the 
manly and resolute men who established the Elector in England 
had before done. He signed his own name to every accusa- 
tion of insincerity his enemies made against him ; and the 
King and the Pretender alike could show proofs of St John’s 
treachery under his own hand and seal. 

Our friends kept a pretty close watch upon his motions, as 
on those of the brave and hearty Whig party, that made little 
concealment of theirs. They would have in the Elector, and 
used every means in their power to effect their end. My Lord 
Marlborough was now with them. His expulsion from power 
by the Tories had thrown that great captain at once on the 
Whig side. We heard he was coming from Antwerp ; and, 
in fact, on the day of the Queen’s death, he once more landed 
on English shore. A great part of the army was always with 
their illustrious leader ; even the Tories in it were indignant 
at the injustice of the persecution which the Whig officers 
were made to undergo. The chiefs of these were in London, 
and at the head of them one of the most intrepid men in the 
world, the Scots Duke of Argyle, whose conduct on the 
second day after that to which I have now brought down my 
history, ended, as such honesty and bravery deserved to end. 


458 The History of 

by establishing the present Royal race on the English 
throne. 

Meanwhile there was no slight difference of opinion amongst 
the councillors surrounding the Prince, as to the plan his High- 
ness should pursue. His female Minister at Court, fancying 
she saw some amelioration in the Queen, was for waiting a 
few days, or hours it might be, until he could be brought to 
her bedside, and acknowledged as her heir. Mr Esmond was 
for having him march thither, escorted by a couple of troops 
of Horse Guards, and openly presenting himself to the Council. 
During the whole of the night of the July, the Colonel 

was engaged with gentlemen of the military profession, whom 
’tis needless here to name ; suffice it to say that several of 
them had exceeding high rank in the army, and one of them 
in especial was a General, who, when he heard the Duke of 
Marlborough was coming on the other side, waved his crutch 
over his head with a huzzah, at the idea that he should march 
out and engage him. Of the three Secretaries of State we 
knew that one was devoted to us. The Governor of the 
Tower was ours ; the two companies on duty at Kensington 
barrack were safe ; and we had intelligence, very speedy and 
accurate, of all that took place at the Palace within. 

At noon, on the 30th of July, a message came to the 
Prince’s friends that the Committee of Council was sitting at 
Kensington Palace, their Graces of Ormond and Shrewsbury, 
and Archbishop of Canterbury and the three Secretaries of 
State, being there assembled. In an hour afterwards, hurried 
news was brought that the two great Whig Dukes, Argyle 
and Somerset, had broke into the Council Chamber without 
a summons, and taken their seat at table. After holding a 
debate there, the whole party proceeded to the chamber of 
the Queen, who was lying in great weakness, but still sensible, 
and the Lords recommended his Grace of Shrewsbury as the 
fittest person to take the vacant place of Lord Treasurer ; 
Her Majesty gave him the staff, as all know. “ And now,” 
writ my messenger from Court, “ now or never is the thne.^^ 

Now or never was the time indeed. In spite of the Whig 
Dukes, our side had still the majority in the Council, and 
Esmond, to whom the message had been brought (the person- 


Henry Esmond 459 

age at Court not being aware that the Prince had quitted his 
lodging in Kensington Square), and Esmond’s gallant young 
aide-de-camp, Frank Castle wood, putting on sword and uni- 
form, took a brief leave of their dear lady, who embraced and 
blessed them both, and went to her chamber to pray for the 
issue of the great event which was then pending. 

Castlewood sped to the barrack to give warning to the 
captain of the Guard there; and then went to the ‘‘King’s 
Arms ” tavern at Kensington, where our friends were as- 
sembled, having come by parties of twos and threes, riding or 
in coaches, and were got together in the upper chamber, fifty- 
three of them ; their servants, who had been instructed to 
bring arms likewise, being below in the garden of the tavern, 
where they were served with drink. Out of this garden is 
a little door that leads into the road of the Palace, and 
[ through this it was arranged that masters and servants were 
to march ; when that signal was given, and that Personage 
I appeared, for whom all were waiting. There was in our 
company the famous officer next in command to the Captain- 
General of the Forces, his Grace the Duke of Ormond, who 
was within at the Council. There were with him two more 
lieutenant-generals, nine major-generals and brigadiers, seven 
colonels, eleven Peers of Parliament, and twenty-one members 
of the House of Commons. The Guard was with us within 
and without the Palace ; the Queen was with us ; the Council 
(save the two Whig Dukes, that must have succumbed) ; 

: the day was our own, and with a beating heart Esmond 
I walked rapidly to the Mall of Kensington, where he had 
I parted with the Prince on the night before. For three nights 

I the Colonel had not b^en to bed ; the last had been passed 

I summoning the Prince’s friends together, of whom the great 
I majority had no sort of inkling of the transaction pending 
I until they were told that he was actually on the spot, and 

were summoned to strike the blow. The night before and 

after the altercation with the Prince, my gentleman, having 
suspicions of his Royal Highness, and fearing lest he should 
be minded to give us the slip, and fly off after his fugitive 
beauty, had spent, if the truth must be told, at the “ Grey- 
hound ” tavern, over against my Lady Castlewood’s house in 


460 The History of 

Kensington Square, with an eye on the door, lest the Prince 
should escape from it. The night before that he had passed in 
his boots at the “ Crown ” at Hounslow, where he must watch 
forsooth all night, in order to get one moment’s glimpse of 1 
Beatrix in the morning. And fate had decreed that he was to j 
have a fourth night’s ride and wakefulness before his business 
was ended. ! 

He ran to the curate’s house in Kensington Mall, and asked ; 
for Mr Bates, the name the Prince went by. The curate’s I 
wife said Mr Bates had gone abroad very early in the morning 
in his boots, saying he was going to the Bishop of Rochester’s | 
house at Chelsey. But the Bishop had been at Kensington 
himself two hours ago to seek for Mr Bates, and had returned 
in his coach to his own house, when he heard that the gentle- 
man was gone thither to seek him. 

This absence was most unpropitious, for an hour’s delay | 
might cost a kingdom ; Esmond had nothing for it but to 
hasten to the “ King’s Arms,” and tell the gentlemen there 
assembled that Mr George (as we called the Prince there), 
was not at home, but that Esmond would go fetch him ; and 
taking a General’s coach that happened to be there, Esmond 
drove across the country to Chelsey, to the Bishop’s house ' 
there. 

The porter said two gentlemen were with his Lordship, and 
Esmond ran past this sentry up to the locked door of the 
Bishop’s study, at which he rattled, and was admitted presently. 
Of the Bishop’s guests one was a brother prelate, and the 
other the Abbe G . 

Where is Mr George.?” says Mr Esmond; “now is the 
time.” 

The Bishop looked scared. “ I went to his lodging,” he 
said, “ and they told me he was come hither. I returned 
as quick as coach would carry me ; and he hath not been here.” 

The Colonel burst out with an oath ; that was all he 
could say to their reverences : ran down the stairs again, 
and bidding the coachman, an old friend and fellow-cam- 
paigner, drive as if he was charging the French with his 
master at Wynendael — they were back at Kensington in 
half-an-hour. 


Henry Esmond 46 1 

Again Esmond went to the curate’s house. Mr Bates had 
not returned. The Colonel had to go with this blank errand 
to the gentlemen at the “ King’s Arms,” that were grown very 
impatient by this time. 

Out of the window of the tavern, and looking over the 
garden wall, you can see the green before Kensington Palace, 
the Palace gate (round which the Ministers’ coaches were 
standing), and the barrack building. As we were looking 
out from this window in gloomy discourse, we heard presently 
trumpets blowing, and some of us ran to the window of the 
front room, looking into the High Street of Kensington, and 
saw a regiment of horse coming. 

“It’s Ormond’s Guards,” says one. 

“No, by God, it’s Argyle’s old regiment !” says my General, 
clapping down his crutch. 

It was, indeed, Argyle’s regiment that was brought from 
Westminster, and that took the place of the regiment at Ken- 
sington on which we could rely. 

“ Oh, Harry ! ” says one of the Generals there present, 
“ you were born under an unlucky star ; I begin to think 
that there’s no Mr George, nor Mr Dragon either. ’Tis 
not the peerage I care for, for our name is so ancient and 
famous, that merely to be called Lord Lydiard would do me 
no good ; but ’tis the chance you promise me of fighting 
Marlborough.” 

As we were talking, Castlewood entered the room with a 
disturbed air. 

“ What news, Frank ? ” says the Colonel. “ Is Mr George 
coming at last ? ” 

“ Damn him, look here ! ” says Castlewood, holding out a 
paper. “ I found it in the book — the what you call it, ‘ Eikum 
Basilikum,’ — that villain Martin put it there — he said his young 
mistress bade him. It was directed to me, but it was meant for 
him I know, and I broke the seal and read it.” 

The whole assembly of officers seemed to swim away before 
Esmond’s eyes as he read the paper ; all that was written on it 
was : — “ Beatrix Esmond is sent away to prison, to Castlewood, 
where she will pray for happier days.” 

“ Can you guess where he is ?” says Castlewood. 


462 


The History of 

“ Yes,” says Colonel Esmond. He knew full well ; Frank 
knew full well : our instinct told whither that traitor had fled. 

He had courage to turn to the company and say : “ Gentle- 
men, I fear very much that Mr George will not be here to-day: 
something hath happened — and — and — I very much fear some 
accident may befall him, which must keep him out of the way. 
Having had your noon^s draught, you had best pay the reckon- 
ing and go home ; there can be no game where there is no one 
to play it.” 

Some of the gentlemen went away without a word, others 
called to pay their duty to Her Majesty and ask for her health. 
The little army disappeared into the darkness out of which it 
had been called ; there had been no writings, no paper to 
implicate any man. Some few officers and members of Parlia- 
ment had been invited over night to breakfast at the “ King’s 
Arms ” at Kensington : and they had called for their bill and 
gone home. 

Chapter XIII 

August 1st, 1714 

“ Does my mistress know of this Esmond asked of Frank, as 
they walked along. 

“ My mother found the letter in the book, on the toilet- table. 
She had writ it ere she had left home,” Frank said. “ Mother 
met her on the stairs, with her hand upon the door, trying to 
enter, and never left her after that till she went away. He did 
not think of looking at it there, nor had Martin the chance of 
telling him. I believe the poor devil meant no harm, though I 
half killed him ; he thought ’twas to Beatrix’s brother he was 
bringing the letter.” 

Frank never said a word of reproach to me for having brought 
the villain amongst us. As we knocked at the door I said, 
“When will the horses be ready.?” Frank pointed with his 
cane, they were turning the street that moment. 

We went up and bade adieu to our mistress ; she was in a 
dreadful state of agitation by this time, and that Bishop was 
with her whose company she was so fond of. 


Henry Esmond 463 

‘‘ Did you tell him, my Lord,” says Esmond, “ that Beatrix 
was at Castlewood ? ” The Bishop blushed and stammered : 
“Well,” says he, “I ” 

“ You served the villain right,” broke out Mr Esmond, “ and 
he has lost a crown by what you told him.” 

My mistress turned quite white. “ Henry, Henry,” says 
; she, “ do not kill him ! ” 

“ It may not be too late,” says Esmond ; “ he may not have 
gone to Castlewood ; pray God it is not too late.” The Bishop 
was breaking out with some hanale phrases about loyalty, and 
the sacredness of ^the Sovereign’s person ; but Esmond sternly 
bade him hold his tongue, burn all papers, and take care of 
Lady Castlewood ; and in five minutes he and Frank were in the 
saddle, John Lockwood behind them, riding towards Castlewood 
at a rapid pace. 

We were just got to Alton, when who should meet us but old 
Lockwood, the porter from Castlewood, John’s father, walking 
by the side of the Hexton flying-coach, who slept the night at 
Alton. Lockwood said his young mistress had arrived at home 
on Wednesday night, and this morning, Friday, had dispatched 
I him with a packet for my lady at Kensington, saying the letter 
I was of great importance. 

I We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood stared 
j with wonder, and cried^out his “Lord bless me’s,” and “ Who’d 
I a thought it’s,” at the sight of his young lord, whom he had 
I not seen these seven years. 

The packet from Beatrix contained no news of importance 
at all. It was written in a jocular strain, affecting to make 
light of her captivity. She asked whether she might have 
leave to visit Mrs Tusher, or to walk beyond the court and 
the garden wall. She gave news of the peacocks, and a fawn 
she had there. She bade her mother send her certain gowns 
and smocks by old Lockwood , she sent her duty to a certain 
Person, if certain other persons permitted her to take such a 
freedom ; how that, as she was not able to play cards with 
him, she hoped he would read good books, such as Doctor 
Atterbury’s sermons and “ Eikon Basilike”: she was going 
to read good books ; she thought her pretty mamma would 
like to know she was not crying her eyes out. 


464 The History of 

“Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?” says the 
Colonel. 

“ There be the laundry-maid, and the kitchen-maid. Madam 
Beatrix’s maid, the man from London, and that be all ; and 
he sleepeth in my lodge away from the maids,” says old 
Lockwood. 

Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, giving it 
to the old man, and bidding him go on to his lady. We knew 
why Beatrix had been so dutiful on a sudden, and why she 
spoke of “ Eikon Basilike.” She writ this letter to put the 
Prince on the scent, and the porter out of the way. 

“ We have a fine moonlight night for riding on,” says 
Esmond ; “ Frank, we may reach Castlewood in time yet.” 
All the way along they made inquiries at the post-houses, 
when a tall young gentleman in a grey suit, with a light 
brown periwig, just the colour of my Lord’s, had been seen 
to pass. He had set off at six that morning, and we at three 
in the afternoon. He rode almost as quickly as we had done ; 
he was seven hours ahead of us still when we reached the last 
stage. 

We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking of 
dawn. We passed the very spot where the car was upset 
fourteen years since, and Mohun lay. The village was not 
up yet, nor the forge lighted, as we rode through it, passing 
by the elms, where the rooks were still roosting, and by the 
church, and over the bridge. We got off our horses at the 
bridge and walked up to the gate. 

“ If she is safe,” says Frank, trembling, and his honest eyes 
filling with tears, “ a silver statue to Our Lady ! ” He was 
going to rattle at the great iron knocker on the oak gate ; but 
Esmond stopped his kinsman’s hand. He had his own fears, 
his own hopes, his own despairs and griefs, too ; but he spoke 
not a word of these to his companion, or showed any signs of 
emotion. 

He went and tapped at the little window at the porter’s 
lodge, gently, but repeatedly, until the man came to the 
bars. 

“ Who’s there ? ” says he, looking out. It was the servant 
from Kensington. 


Henry Esmond 465 

My Lord Castle wood and Colonel Esmond,” we said, from 
below. ‘‘ Open the gate and let us in without any noise.” 

“ My Lord Castlewood ? ” says the other ; “ my Lord’s here, 
and in bed.” 

“ Open, d you,” says Castlewood, with a curse. 

“ I shall open to no one,” says the man, shutting the glass 
window as Frank drew a pistol. He would have fired at the 
porter, but Esmond again held his hand. 

“There are more ways than one,” says he, “of entering 
such a great house as this.” Frank grumbled that the west 
gate was half-a-mile round. “ But I know of a way that’s 
not a hundred yards off,” says Mr Esmond ; and leading his 
kinsman close along the wall, and by the shrubs which had 
now grown thick on what had been an old moat about the 
house, they came to the buttress, at the side of which the 
little window was, which was Father Holt’s private door. 
Esmond climbed up to this easily, broke a pane that had 
been mended, and touched the spring inside, and the two 
gentlemen passed in that way, treading as lightly as they 
could ; and so going through the passage into the court, 
over which the dawn was now reddening, and where the 
fountain plashed in the silence. 

They sped instantly to the porter’s lodge, where the fellow 
had not fastened his door that led into the court ; and pistol in 
hand came upon the terrified wretch, and bade him be silent. 
Then they asked him (Esmond’s head reeled, and he almost 
fell as he spoke) when Lord Castlewood had arrived ? He 
said on the previous evening, about eight of the clock. — “ And 
what then ? ” — His Lordship supped with his sister. — “ Did 
the man wait?” — Yes, he and my Lady’s maid both waited: 
the other servants made the supper ; and there was no wine, 
and they could give his Lordship but milk, at which he 
grumbled ; and — and Madame Beatrix kept Miss Lucy always 
in the room with her. And there being a bed across the court 
in the Chaplain’s room, she had arranged my Lord was to sleep 
there. Madame Beatrix had come downstairs laughing with 
the maids, and had locked herself in, and my Lord had stood 
for a while talking to her through the door, and she laughing 
at him. And then he paced the court awhile, and she came 

2 6 


466 The History of 

again to the upper window ; and my Lord implored her to 
come down and walk in the room ; but she would not, and 
laughed at him again, and shut the window ; and so my Lord, 
uttering what seemed curses, but in a foreign language, went 
to the Chaplain’s room to bed. 

“ Was this all ?” — “ All,” the man swore upon his honour ; 
all, as he hoped to be saved. — “ Stop, there was one thing 
more. My Lord, on arriving, and once or twice during supper, 
did kiss his sister, as was natural, and she kissed him.” At 
this Esmond ground his teeth with rage, and well nigh throttled 
the amazed miscreant who was speaking, whereas Castlewood, 
seizing hold of his cousin’s hand, burst into a great fit of 
laughter. 

“ If it amuses thee,” says Esmond in French, ‘‘ that your 
sister should be exchanging of kisses with a stranger, I fear 
poor Beatrix will give thee plenty of sport.” — Esmond darkly 
thought, how Hamilton, Ashburnham, had before been masters 
of those roses that the young Prince’s lips were now feeding 
on. He sickened at that notion. Her cheek was desecrated, 
her beauty tarnished ; shame and honour stood between it and 
him. The love was dead within him ; had she a crown to bring 
him with her love, he felt that both would degrade him. 

But this wrath against Beatrix did not lessen the angry feel- 
ings of the Colonel against the man who had been the occasion 
if not the cause of the evil. Frank sat down on a stone bench 
in the courtyard, and fairly fell asleep, while Esmond paced 
up and down the court, debating what should ensue. What 
mattered how much or how little had passed between the Prince 
and the poor faithless girl ? They were arrived in time perhaps 
to rescue her person, but not her mind : had she not instigated 
the young Prince to come to her ; suborned servants, dis- 
missed others, so that she might communicate with him The 
treacherous heart within her had surrendered, though the place 
was safe ; and it was to win this that he had given a life’s 
struggle and devotion : this, that she was ready to give away 
for the bribe of a coronet or a wink of the Prince’s eye. 

When he had thought his thoughts out he shook up poor 
Frank from his sleep, who rose yawning, and said he had been 
dreaming of Clotilda. “ You must back me,” says Esmond, 


Henry Esmond 467 

“ in what I am going to do. I have been thinking that yonder 
scoundrel may have been instructed to tell that story, and that 
the whole of it may be a lie ; if it be, we shall find it out from 
the gentleman who is asleep yonder. See if the door leading 
to my Lady’s rooms ” (so we called the rooms at the north- 
west angle of the house), “ see if the door is barred as he 
saith.” We tried; it was indeed as the lacquey had said, 
closed within. 

“ It may have been opened and shut afterwards,” says poor 
Esmond ; ‘‘ the foundress of our family let our ancestor in in 
that way.” 

“What will you do, Harry, if — if what that fellow saith 
should turn out untrue ” The young man looked scared and 
frightened into his kinsman’s face ; I dare say it wore no very 
pleasant expression. 

“Let us first go see whether the two stories agree,” says 
Esmond ; and went in at the passage and opened the door into 
what had been his own chamber now for well nigh five-and- 
twenty years. A candle was still burning, and the Prince 
asleep dressed on the bed — Esmond did not care for making 
a noise. The Prince started up in his bed, seeing two men in 
his chamber: “Qui est la.?” says he, and took a pistol from 
under his pillow. 

“It is the Marquis of Esmond,” says the Colonel, “ come to 
welcome His Majesty to his house of Castlewood, and to report 
of what hath happened in London. Pursuant to the King’s 
orders, I passed the night before last, after leaving His Majesty, 
in waiting upon the friends of the King. It is a pity that His 
Majesty’s desire to see the country and to visit our poor house 
should have caused the King to quit London without notice 
yesterday, when the opportunity happened which in all human 
probability may not occur again ; and had the King not chosen 
to ride to Castlewood, the Prince of Wales might have slept at 
St James’s.” 

“ ’Sdeath ! gentlemen,” says the Prince, starting off his bed, 
whereon he was lying in his clothes, “the Doctor was with 
me yesterday morning, and after watching by my sister all 
night, told me I might not hope to see the Queen.” 

“ It would have been otherwise,” says Esmond with another 


468 The History of 

bow ; ‘‘ as, by this time, the Queen may be dead in spite of 
the Doctor. The Council was met, a new Treasurer was 
appointed, the troops were devoted to the King’s cause ; and 
fifty loyal gentlemen of the greatest names of this kingdom 
were assembled to accompany the Prince of Wales, who might 
have been the acknowledged heir of the throne, or the pos- 
sessor of it by this time, ,had your Majesty not chosen to take 
the air. We were ready: there was only one person that 
failed us, your Majesty’s gracious ” 

“ Morbleu, Monsieur, you give me too much Majesty,” said 
the Prince, who had now risen up and seemed to be looking 
to one of us to help him to his coat. But neither stirred. 

‘‘We shall take care,” says Esmond, “not much oftener 
to offend in that particular.” 

“ What mean you, my Lord ? ” says the Prince, and muttered 
something about a guet~a~pens, which Esmond caught up. 

“ The snare, sir,” said he, “ was not of our laying ; it is not 
we that invited you. We came to avenge, and not to compass, 
the dishonour of our family.” 

“Dishonour! Morbleu, there has been no dishonour,” says 
the Prince, turning scarlet, “ only a little harmless playing.” 

“That was meant to end seriously.” 

“I swear,” the Prince broke out impetuously, upon “the 
honour of a gentleman, my lords ” 

“ That we arrived in time. No wrong hath been done, 
Frank,” says Colonel Esmond, turning round to young Castle- 
wood, who stood at the door as the talk was going on. “ See I 
here is a paper whereon His Majesty hath deigned to com- 
mence some verses in honour, or dishonour, of Beatrix. Here 
is ‘ Madame ’ and ‘ Flamme,’ ‘ Cruelle ’ and ‘ Rebelle,’ and 
‘ Amour ’ and ‘ Jour,’ in the Royal writing and spelling. Had 
the Gracious lover been happy, he had not passed his time in 
sighing.” In fact, and actually as he was speaking, Esmond 
cast his eyes down towards the table, and saw a paper on which 
my young Prince had been scrawling a madrigal, that was to 
finish his charmer on the morrow. 

“ Sir,” says the Prince, burning with rage (he had assumed 
his Royal coat unassisted by this time), “ did I come here to 
receive insults .? ” 


Henry Esmond 469 

‘‘ To confer them, may it please your Majesty,” says the 
Colonel, with a very low bow, ‘‘and the gentlemen of our 
family are come to thank you.” 

Malediction says the young man, tears starting into his 
eyes with helpless rage and mortification. “What will you 
with me, gentlemen ” 

“ If your Majesty will please to enter the next apartment,” 
says Esmond, preserving his grave tone, “I have some papers 
there which I would gladly submit to you, and by your per- 
mission I will lead the way ; ” and, taking the taper up, and 
backing before the Prince with very great ceremony, Mr 
Esmond passed into the little Chaplain’s room, through which 
we had just entered into the house. “Please to set a chair 
for His Majesty, Frank,” says the Colonel to his companion, 
who wondered almost as much at this scene, and was as much 
puzzled by it, as the other actor in it. Then going to the 
crypt over the mantel-piece, the Colonel opened it, and drew 
thence the papers which so long had lain there. 

“ Here, may it please your Majesty,” says he, “ is the Patent 
of Marquis sent over by your Royal Father at St Germains to 
Viscount Castlewood, my father : here is the witnessed certifi- 
cate of my father’s marriage to my mother, and of my birth 
and christening ; I was christened of that religion of which 
your sainted sire gave all through life so shining an example. 
These are my titles, dear Frank, and this what I do with 
them : here go Baptism and Marriage, and here the Marquisate 
and the August Sign-Manual, with which your predecessor was 
pleased to honour our race.” And as Esmond spoke he set 
the papers burning in the brazier. “ You will please, sir, to 
remember,” he continued, “ that our family hath ruined itself 
by fidelity to yours : that my grandfather spent his estate, and 
gave his blood and his son to die for your service ; that my 
dear lord’s grandfather (for lord you are now, Frank, by right 
and title too) died for the same cause ; that my poor kins- 
woman, my father’s second wife, after giving away her honour 
to your wicked perjured race, sent all her wealth to the 
King ; and got in return that precious title that lies in 
ashes, and this inestimable yard of blue riband. I lay this 
at your feet and stamp upon it : I draw this sword, and break 


470 


The History of 

it and deny you ; and, had you completed the wrong you 
designed us, by Heaven I would have driven it through your 
heart, and no more pardoned you than your father pardoned 
Monmouth. Frank will do the same, won’t you. Cousin ? ” 

Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at the 
papers as they flamed in the old brazier, took out his sword 
and broke it, holding his head down : — “ I go with my 
tousin,” says he, giving Esmond a grasp of the hand. 

“ Marquis or not, by , I stand by him any day. I beg 

your Majesty’s pardon for swearing ; that is — that is — I’m for 
the Elector of Hanover. It’s all your Majesty’s own fault. 
The Queen’s dead most likely by this time. And you might 
have been King if you hadn’t come dangling after Trix.” 

“ Thus to lose a crown,” says the young Prince, starting 
up, and speaking French in his eager way ; “ to lose the 
loveliest woman in the world ; to lose the loyalty of such 
hearts as yours, is not this, my Lords, enough of humilia- 
tion ? — Marquis, if I go on my knees, will you pardon me ? — 
No, I can’t do that, but I can offer you reparation, that of 
honour, that of gentlemen. Favour me by crossing the sword 
with mine: yours is broke — see, yonder in the armoire are 
two ; ” and the Prince took them out as eager as a boy, and 
held them towards Esmond : — ‘‘ Ah ! you will ? Merci ! 
Monsieur, merci ! ” 

Extremely touched by this immense mark of condescension 
and repentance for wrong done. Colonel Esmond bowed down 
so low as almost to kiss the gracious young hand that con- 
ferred on him such an honour, and took his guard in silence. 
The swords were no sooner met, than Castlewood knocked 
up Esmond’s with the blade of his own, which he had broke 
off short at the shell ; and the Colonel falling back a step 
dropped his point with another very low bow, and declared 
himself perfectly satisfied. 

“ Eh bien, Vicomte ! ” says the young Prince, who was a 
boy, and a French boy, il ne nous reste qu’une chose a 
faire : ” he placed his sword upon the table, and the fingers 
of his two hands upon his breast : — “ We have one more 
thing to do,” says he ; ‘‘ you do not divine it ? ” He 
stretched out his arms : — “ Embrassons nous E'* 


Henry Esmond 47 1 

The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room : 
— What came she to seek there ? She started and turned 
pale at the sight of her brother and kinsman, drawn swords, 
broken sword-blades, and papers yet smouldering in the 
brazier. 

“ Charming Beatrix,” says the Prince, with a blush which 
became him very well, “ these lords have come a-horseback 
from London, where my sister lies in a despaired state, and 
where her successor makes himself desired. Pardon me for 
my escapade of last evening. I had been so long a prisoner, 
that I seized the occasion of a promenade on horseback, and 
my horse naturally bore me towards you. I found you a 
queen in your little court, where you deigned to entertain 
me. Present my homages to your maids of honour. I sighed 
as you slept, under the window of your chamber, and then 
retired to seek rest in my own. It was there that these 
gentlemen agreeably roused me. Yes, milords, for that is a 
happy day that makes a Prince acquainted, at whatever cost to 
his vanity, with such a noble heart as that of the Marquis of 
Esmond. Mademoiselle, may we take your coach to town ? 

I I saw it in the hangar, and this poor Marquis must be 
dropping with sleep.” 

“ Will it please the King to breakfast before he goes ? ” 
was all Beatrix could say. The roses had shuddered out of 
her cheeks ; her eyes were glaring ; she looked quite old. 
She came up to Esmond and hissed out a word or two : — 
“ If I did not love you before. Cousin,” says she, “ think how 
I love you now.” If words could stab, no doubt she would 
have killed Esmond ; she looked at him as if she could. 

But her keen words' gave no wound to Mr Esmond ; his 
heart was too hard. As he looked at her he wondered that 
he could ever have loved her. His love of ten years was 
over ; it fell down dead on the spot, at the Kensington 
tavern, where Frank brought him the note out of “ Eikon 
Basilike.” The Prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed 
at him, and quitted the chamber. I have never seen her from 
that day. 

Horses were fetched and put to the chariot presently. My 
Lord rode outside, and as for Esmond he was so tired that he 


472 The History of 

was no sooner in the carriage than he fell asleep, and never 
woke till night, as the coach came into Alton. 

As we drove to the “ Bell Inn ” comes a mitred coach with 
our old friend Lockwood beside the coachman. My Lady 
Castlewood and the Bishop were inside ; she gave a little 
scream when she saw us. The two coaches entered the inn 
almost together ; the landlord and people coming out with 
lights to welcome the visitors. 

We in our coach sprang out of it, as soon as ever we saw 
the dear lady, and above all the Doctor in his cassock. What 
was the news ? Was there yet time ? Was the Queen alive ? 
These questions were put hurriedly, as Boniface stood waiting 
before his noble guests to bow them up the stair. 

“Is she safe ?” was what Lady Castlewood whispered in a 
flutter to Esmond. 

“ All’s well, thank God,” says he, as the fond lady took his 
hand and kissed it, and called him her preserver and her dear. 
She wasn’t thinking of Queens and crowns. 

The Bishop’s news was reassuring : at least all was not lost ; 
the Queen yet breathed, or was alive when they left London, 
six hours since. (“It was Lady Castlewood who insisted on 
coming,” the Doctor said.) Argyle had marched up regiments 
from Portsmouth, and sent abroad for more ; the Whigs were 
on the alert, a pest on them (I am not sure but the Bishop 
swore as he spoke), and so too were our people. And all 
might be saved, if only the Prince could be at London in time. 
We called for horses, instantly to return to London. We 
never went up poor crestfallen Boniface’s stairs, but into our 
coaches again. The Prince and his Prime Minister in one, 
Esmond in the other, with only his dear mistress as a 
companion. 

Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather the 
Prince’s friends and warn them of his coming. We travelled 
through the night — Esmond discoursing to his mistress of the 
events of the last twenty-four hours : of Castlewood’s ride and 
his ; of the Prince’s generous behaviour and their reconciliation. 
The night seemed short enough ; and the starlit hours passed 
away serenely in that fond company. 

So we came along the road ; the Bishop’s coach heading 


473 


Henry Esmond 

ours ; and, with some delays in procuring horses, we got to 
Hammersmith about four o’clock on Sunday morning, the first 
of August, and half-an-hour after, it being then bright day, 
we rode by my Lady Warwick’s house, and so down the street 
I of Kensington. 

Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street, and 
, many people moving too and fro. Round the gate leading to 
t the Palace, where the guard is, there was especially a great 
I crowd. And the coach ahead of us stopped, and the Bishop’s 
man got down to know what the concourse meant. 

There presently came from out of the gate — Horse Guards 
with their trumpets, and a company of heralds with their 
tabards. The trumpets blew, and the herald-at-arms came 
forward and proclaimed George, by the Grace of God, of 
Great Britain, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of the 
; Faith. And the people shouted, God save the King ! 

Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I caught 
I sight of one sad face, which I had known all my life, and seen 
I under many disguises. It was no other than poor Mr Holt’s, 
who had slipped over to England to witness the triumph of 
the good cause ; and now beheld its enemies victorious, amidst 
the acclamations of the English people. The poor fellow had 
forgot to huzzah or to take his hat off, until his neighbours in 
the crowd remarked his want of loyalty, and cursed him for a 
Jesuit in disguise, when he ruefully uncovered and began to 
cheer. Sure he was the most unlucky of men; he never 
played a game but he lost it ; or engaged in a conspiracy 
but ’twas certain to end in defeat. I saw him in Flanders 
after this, whence he went to Rome to the headquarters of 
his Order ; and actually reappeared among us in America, 
very old, and busy, and hopeful. I am not sure that he did 
not assume the hatchet and mocassins there ; and, attired in a 
blanket and war-paint, skulk about a missionary amongst the 
Indians. He lies buried in our neighbouring province of 
Maryland now, with a cross over him, and a mound of earth 
above him; under which that unquiet spirit is for ever at 
peace. 

With the sound of King George’s trumpets all the vain 

2 H 


474 


The History of 

hopes of the weak and foolish young Pretender were blown 
away ; and with that music, too, I may say, the drama of 
my own life was ended. That happiness, which had sub- 
sequently crowned it, cannot be written in words ; ’tis of 
its nature sacred and secret, and not to be spoken of, though 
the heart be ever so full of thankfulness, save to Heaven and 
the One Ear alone — to one fond being, the truest and tenderest 
and purest wife ever man was blessed with. As I think of the 
immense happiness which was in store for me, and of the depth 
and intensity of that love which, for so many years, hath blessed 
me, I own to a transport of wonder and gratitude for such a 
boon — nay, am thankful to have been endowed with a heart 
capable of feeling and knowing the immense beauty and 
value of the gift which God hath bestowed upon me. Sure, 
love vincit omnia; is immeasurably above all ambition, more 
precious than wealth, more noble than name. He knows 
not life who knows not that : he hath not felt the highest 
faculty of the soul who hath not enjoyed it. In the name of 
my wife, I write the completion of hope, and the summit of 
happiness. To have such a love is the one blessing, in com- 
parison of which all earthly joy is of no value ; and to think 
of her is to praise God. 

It was at Bruxelles, whither we retreated after the failure 
of our plot — our Whig friends advising us to keep out of the 
way — that the great joy of my life was bestowed upon me, 
and that my dear mistress became my wife. We had been so 
accustomed to an extreme intimacy and confidence, and had 
lived so long and tenderly together, that we might have gone 
on to the end without thinking of a closer tie ; but circum- 
stances brought about that event which so prodigiously multi- 
plied my happiness and hers (for which I humbly thank 
Heaven), although a calamity befell us, which, I blush to 
think, hath occurred more than once in our house. I know 
not what infatuation of ambition urged the beautiful and 
wayward woman, whose name hath occupied so many of 
these pages, and who was served by me with ten years of 
such constant fidelity and passion ; but ever after that day at 
Castlewood, when we rescued her, she persisted in holding 
all her family as her enemies, and left us, and escaped to 


Henry Esmond 475 

France, to what a fate I disdain to tell. Nor was her son’s 
house a home for my dear mistress ; my poor Frank was 
weak, as perhaps all our race hath been, and led by women. 
Those around him were imperious, and in a terror of his 
mother’s influence over him, lest he should recant, and deny 
the creed which he had adopted by their persuasion. The 
difference of their religion separated the son and the mother : 
my dearest mistress felt that she was. severed from her 
children and alone in the world — alone but for one constant 
servant on whose fidelity, praised be Heaven, she could count. 
’Twas after a scene of ignoble quarrel on the part of Frank’s 
wife and mother (for the poor lad had been made to marry 
the whole of that German family with whom he had con- 
nected himself), that I found my mistress one day in tears, 
and then besought her to confide herself to the care and 
devotion of one who, by God’s help, would never forsake her. 
And then the tender matron, as beautiful in her autumn, 
and as pure as virgins in their spring, with blushes of 
love and eyes of meek surrender,” yielded to my re- 
spectful importunity, and consented to share my home. 
Let the last words I write thank her, and bless her who hath 
blessed it. 

By the kindness of Mr Addison, all danger of prosecution, 
and every obstacle against our return to England, was re- 
moved ; and my son Frank’s gallantry in Scotland made his 
peace with the King’s Government. But we two cared no 
longer to live in England ; and Frank formally and joyfully 
yielded over to us the possession of that estate which we now 
occupy, far away from Europe and its troubles, on the beauti- 
ful banks of the Potomac, where we have built a new Castle- 
wood, and think with grateful hearts of our old home. In 
our Transatlantic country we have a season, the calmest and 
most delightful of the year, which we call the Indian summer: 
I often say the autumn of our life resembles that happy and 
serene weather, and am thankful for its rest and its sweet 
sunshine. Heaven hath blessed us with a child, which each 
parent loves for her resemblance to the other. Our diamonds 
are turned into ploughs and axes for our plantations ; and into 
negroes, the happiest and merriest, I think, in all this country ; 


47^ The History of Henry Esmond 

and the only jewel by which my wife sets any store, and from 
which she hath never parted, is that gold button she took from 
my arm on the day when she visited me in prison, and which 
she wore ever after, as she told me, on the tenderest heart in 
the world. 
















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